


Syrenet

by ParadigmOfWriting



Series: The Syrenet Project [1]
Category: Super Smash Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Death, Dark, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-20 02:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 117,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12422964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadigmOfWriting/pseuds/ParadigmOfWriting
Summary: Darkness shrouds the man's body as he's consumed by the wave of black, cyber bits and parts imbedding into his skin. He howls in pain, trying to rip the technological insertions out, but his attempts are futile as the product of Syrenet devours him. From afar, she is watching him, and she's enjoying every second of it. Syrenet has turned out to be a success.A foul smell rides the air, and the body begins to stink. Copper drips slide down his skull, down his back, and out of his mouth as he dies. Laughter fills the sewer, rising into a howl, a noise that rides on the wind and whips around corners. A surging blackness takes him, and he's forever gone. Digital bits fly by, binary 1's and 0's that he can no longer understand, and then a quiet silence; the forever of nothingness.





	1. Foundations of Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here! And oh my god it is time, it is freaking time! This project has been in the making for probably eight to nine months, since March or April of this year. I introduce to you... Syrenet! This is the largest story I will ever write on this entire site, not necessarily in word count or in chapter count, but by the plot and the history behind it all. Syrenet is going to be set in America, circa 2095 or so. It is going to be forty chapters, divided into four sections, or arcs, #1-10, #11-20, #21-30, #31-40. Enjoy Chapter #1: Foundations of Earth, starting off Arc #1: The Boston Smuggler.

_~ If the world wanted you to be charge of it by now, it'd let you. Do not fall into the thought that you're simply entitled for something in this world. You. Earn. It._

* * *

The pencil scratches against the paper sound hoarse and loud as the clash with the shouts from a myriad of people outside. Ike Forgenson glances up from the notebook warily, his left hand placed precariously on the blunt end of his revolver currently stuck in his back pocket of his suit. His cobalt eyes flash out a glance of irritation and confusion. He snaps his head to the right, and without saying a word, a shadow sneaks along the walls and out into the sunlight. Ike goes back to the notebook, scoffing.

_April 30th, 2095_

_Journal Entry #230_

_President Corrin requests that the Syrenet squadron remain here in Oklahoma City for another week until she can find out exactly what is going on with the communications system back in D.C. I think it is absolute... crap, that I have to remain here. I had to trade my Syrenet suit out for a simple one, tie and all. I feel absolutely lonely in it, not having Lyn telling me what to do in my head. Whatever. The people do not want the project in their streets, but instead of politely asking us to go away, they bring guns and knives and bitter resentment. Really makes us feel welcome._

The soldier reenters the room, looking unhappy. Ike notices this and sits up, frowning. "What is it?"

"I think you should come and see this," the soldier bites down on his tongue. "Marth needs you out there. Gun and all."

Ike closes the notebook and stands up, complacent. "Perfect. These people can't keep their traps shut for one minute. Causing all of this ruckus..." he trails off, shaking his head, pushing open the door and walking out into the hot Oklahoma City air. As sunlight hits his eyes, so does the loud and ever growing screams of enraged denizens of the city. The commander runs a hand through his messy navy hair, sighing.

Amassed in front of city hall, in the town square, perhaps was an angry mob of four hundred or so, every single person waving either a flag, weapon, or somesuch other possession. Ike can hear their chants in one unanimous cry. "Leave our city! Leave our city!"

"Oh... President Corrin is not going to be happy about this..."

Standing a few feet away, examining the crowd, is another commander of Syrenet, Marth Lowell. In the sun, his aquamarine hair, like Ike's draws all the attention to him, towering over the mass of enraged citizens, a sniper rifle hooked under the crook of his arm. Marth looks over, seeing that Ike has been withdrawn from his indoor retreat of writing and solitude.

"I was wondering if you had were dozing off with a nap!" Marth yells at him over the shouting.

"How long have they been out here protesting?"

"Not long. Just an hour or so. Haven't had any casualties, but I don't want to say that'll be the case forever. We're trying to get in touch with the White House on what to do, but nothing's getting through. I think the jamming of our communications system is happening once again... Corrin has instructed us to not open fire on them. None of the soldiers here have bullets in their guns, her orders."

"We're standing for that?" Ike retorts.

"Just the two immediate soldiers on our left and right don't have magazines. Everything else is locked and loaded." Marth reassures.

"It isn't that reassuring."

"Trust me. Corrin-"

"I know what madam Corrin said, Marth!" Ike growls. "But, dammit, man... this is a protest that could eventually turn into a riot."

Marth opens his mouth wide in objection, but decides to not pursue that avenue. The more buff of the two rolls his eyes, looking over the crowd some more.

Ike mulls over the details of the Oklahoma project in his head. Syrenet, in all simplistic terms, was a scientific breakthrough created by Washington D.C where they could form soldiers into super machines, akin to a Captain America or known otherwise. The people would be dressed in metallic suits of armor, hybrid technologies that each had something called an AI unit in the back of your head, a holographic person who was your God inside your head. Backed by the entire national U.S government, the implementation of Syrenet went into effect, headquarters being in D.C. Almost immediately, it became knowledgeable of exactly what power this project contained, and soon a branch was added, like the FBI or CIA, though minimal.

However, with the creation of Syrenet, came along a resistance group. Rebels and inhabitants of America who felt that the creation of this 'project' would be the cause of dictatorship, totalitarian rule. In the genuine mission statement of Syrenet, this was not the case. Syrenet was simply created to act as an enhancement towards the military of the United States government, and there were those in the streets who expanded it to something more.

Marth senses some trouble down to his left, and flicks his wrist at a few operatives behind him. "I don't know what they're trying to accomplish by simply yelling at us. You can't expect the entire government to shut down the Syrenet project because of a few rebels..."

"I don't think that's what they're after..." Ike mutters, and something down in the mass catches his eye. Perhaps a few hundred yards away is a girl, maybe no older than twenty or so, chanting, something in her hand. On further inspection, Ike can see that the object appears to be a strip of paper, but the writing on it being illegible at such a distance. There's a fire in the girl's voice, her blonde fishtail braids snapping in the wind, and Ike's eyes narrow. He points over at her. "Who's that? She is seeming to channel all of this anger and direct it."

His comrade follows his gaze, eyebrows raising. "That's Sheik Braring," Marth says. "She's come down here every single day for the past week to protest our stay. She hasn't done much more than scream insults at us. Doesn't seem to be armed."

In a matter of moments, the intensity of the 'riot', if Ike was even compelled to call it such, shifted. It all shifted. A rioter began to break out from the crowd, something in his hand. Ike's eyes widen, realizing that it was the thing in Sheik's hands, which wasn't a piece of paper at all, but a garrote. A soldier steps up bravely to the man, gun cocked and loaded.

"Get back, sir!" he orders.

"You will not control us with that cyber technology," the man snaps back, tightening his wrists. "You will not!"

"I said to get back!" the soldier repeats, evidently loading the gun.

The man lunges forward perhaps out of sheer insanity, pressing the barrel of the gun to his forehead. That's when Ike understands what they're dealing with. Intelligence. And that's the guy who has no bullets in his clip. This is going to be bad, _oh so bad._ The man clicks the trigger of the gun for the soldier, and when there's no spraying of copper everywhere, he screams out to the crowd. "No bullets! There's no bullets!"

All living hell breaks loose.

The soldier tries to get back, but the man has tied the garrote around his neck, strangling the poor sap for all its worth. Ike curses, grabbing Marth by the wrist as he pulls them back behind a column. He retrieves his revolver, looking around the column. For a singular moment, the crowd lies in a strange purgatory of confusion, before Sheik in the front screams out another order, and the entire mass of four hundred charges.

"Oh, you've got be kidding me!" Marth swears. Ike spins from behind the column, aiming down the barrel of his gun, firing. A bullet lodges itself in the throat of a poor fellow who went running for the front door of the citadel. Marth grips his sniper rifle, nodding at Ike before running into the building, Ike taking shots at given opportunities. Masses of people are running up the steps, some carrying Molotov cocktails, a few having bricks, one burning the American flag before throwing it at the roof of city hall.

Above, gunmen are firing into the crowd, a pelting rain of silver and halcyon darts imbedding nerve deep, before exploding, blood and bone matter flaying everywhere. Ike curses, running into the citadel. He barely has time to close the door and back away from it before Sheik steals a guard's RPG and fires it. Fire lacerates the bluenette's back as he goes flying into the room. He slams into a table, copper filling his mouth.

Ike shakes his head, groaning. Throwing a glance back at the smoky entrance, insurgents flood in, stabbing and shooting. Looks like he isn't going to be staying here. He knew this wasn't going to ever work out. He takes to the stairs, shouting into the cuff of his suit. "Immediate backup! I repeat, immediate backup! Hostiles have broken loose, we're under attack!" He gains a second to fire behind him, an explosion following the release of his shot.

Up to the roof he goes, where Marth is located, crouched beneath a beam, taking lucky shots at every chance he gets. Though the ensuing chaos and melee had only broken out not even two minutes ago, the cobblestone ground is soaked a putrid crimson, the smell of burnt flesh and the loud, dying screams of men and women ringing out in a vicious echo.

"How things like this can even happen is beyond," Marth grits, ducking under a bullet, "Is beyond me!"

"We can't stay here. We're going to be a sitting duck in water..." Ike reloads his magazine.

"Now is not the time for your silly little sayings, Ike. Any luck with the radio?"

"No one has responded back... so maybe not."

The man's eyes follow a projectile as it is thrown into the air, landing by Marth's elbow. A noticeable ticking sound is emerging from the device, a light following it by bleeping red. Ike pulls at his comrade's back, nearly wrenching him from his spot as he throws him over his shoulder. "Watch out!" Ike screams, racing from the roof as the explosive rips the roof of the building apart.

Ike loses his hold on Marth, the wave of energy causing him to fly into the air, slamming him on the following roof of the subsequent apartment. His skull crashes into concrete, and Ike's entire body goes completely numb. Blood is starting to pool around his entire body, and the last thing he sees before black ants burrow themselves into his eyes is Marth's weak and straggled body landing on its feet, before the commander flops to the roof face first.

* * *

_May 1st, 2095_

_Journal Entry #231_

_I'm lucky to even be alive. I'm lucky to have walked away with my non-writing hand to be broken, and a concussion that the doctors immediately treated by getting me back in my Syrenet suit. Marth is alive too, I don't know what I would've done had be died on my watch. Everything happened so quickly, I am still unable and unsure of how to process it. From what I've been informed of, the group that amassed in front of the Oklahoma city building were all insurgents belonging to the Midwest rebel group nicknamed the Dust Devils of Syrenet by command. The girl I highlighted from the crowd, Sheik Barring or whatever her name is, is the leader of that entire force, roughly five thousand strong. I want to go and drop a bomb. President Corrin says that is not allowed, and I'm going to make sure that the next time I see her, she knows how stupid it is to reject that idea._

_Including Marth and myself, the only survivors from Oklahoma City were us, three other soldiers from Marth's Syrenet unit, and three human relation officers who weren't even in the town square at the time of the attack. That's what the news is calling it, an attack on Oklahoma City's town hall, and since I've heard it used about twenty million times since I got in this helicopter, I might as well be using it too._

_President Corrin is not happy, and I have reasonable understanding to agree with her. Vice President Robin is being much more lenient on us. She's never been in a day of battle and is already coddling us. But, back to Corrin, she's being as vicious to us as she always is. I wish... actually, I don't want to wish for anything from our president. She'll never change, but it still means that I am not happy at her nor her decision making. Despite the fact that Syrenet thought the state of Oklahoma was a safe zone with mild resistance, it is no excuse to under staff us. Forty soldiers and government officials would not be enough to quash two hundred people, let alone double that with the manpower they had._

_Which brings me to my next concern as I write this. Where would a rebel group get RPG's and grenades with such power? In my ranting to madam Corrin, I'll list that one as well. The helicopter is going back to Washington D.C where Marth and I will be given a few days recovery, before Corrin has to send Marth up to Detroit for an entirely other cause that is in the dark to me now._

_I don't know where the mission went wrong. It was simple. Go into Oklahoma City and create a Syrenet substation, simply a factory to help make more suits, yet the people resisted, resisting for maybe no other cause than that they could. She's abandoning the project for trying to establish a branch out in the Midwest. Too many insurgents, and with the news broadcasting such a successful attack, I can see why._

_I also don't know how Syrenet itself is going to take this. Shulk demanded that he be out in the front lines with Marth and I, but Corrin refused. For having as many units as we do, you would've thought that she could've given us a few more. Perhaps if there we more reinforcements, there'd be more to tell the tale. I'm glad I'm not into politics, only the firing of guns and getting the job done._

_I love the Syrenet cause, but not necessarily the Syrenet work. Looking back at how the whole operation went down, there is much that needs to be discussed._

_The Oklahoma Syrenet project is a failure._

_Looks like we need to regroup._

_~ Ike Forgenson, Commander of Syrenet Unit Charlie, Unit #C_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! There we are folks, Chapter #1: Foundations of Earth, of Syrenet. Yes, while this may seem entirely confusing to you, it's done for a specific reason, placed in media res specifically for the plot. The chapters from here on out will be longer, no chapter will be shorter than 3k by any stretch of means. Please comment! See you for Chapter #2: Glass Ceilings. Have a great day!
> 
> ~ Paradigm


	2. Glass Ceilings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, #2: Glass Ceilings. Last chapter was the very beginning, dropping you straight into this world I've created and am about to establish. Time to meet two more main characters of the story; a Mr. Shulk Roberts and a Mrs. Corrin Etch, the president of the United States.

* * *

_~ Time does not forgive, but instead decides to hold grudges depending on the severity of your sin. I rise and fall every morning, but my breathing still feels labored. Atone for the things you say, the things you did, and the things you will do as there's no certainty of any kind they'll forgive you back. Time does not forgive, time does not forget. You shouldn't either._

* * *

The tunnel lights of the tram pass over colonel Shulk Robert's notebook in a flickering daze, elongated stripes of shadows and brightness colliding together in a fractured piece of art. He looks up, eyes passing over the agglomeration of signs and directories in the metro system of Washington D.C. The man chews on the inside of his cheek, placing the notebook and pencil in his hand down. He must've been nearing his stop soon. The only reason why Shulk even knew this was because there was a certain window in the corner that the station had never fixed meaning the odd presentation of light would fall on his spot as he sat in the same place every time he rode the metro.

Shulk glances at his notebook, the doors hadn't opened yet, so he could very well return back to his idle busy work. The pencil sketches on the pallid paper effortlessly, the colonel swiping up and down, shading in, and then in a beautiful, tactful swirl of the pencil tip, a drawing of his wife completed under the faithful eye of shadow. Delicate, swirled blonde hair resting quietly at her shoulders, sparkling emerald eyes... almost a complete lookalike to her husband. Shulk flexes his hand, tightening the finger where his wedding ring rests, the dainty halcyon band glimmering off the metro lights.

A kid nearby sneezes, clearly sick from his bright red nose and long jacket. The two lock eyes, and Shulk smiles briefly. He always wanted a child. But that was before- the colonel breaks off, banishing the thought from his conscious, and the kid goes back to sneezing. The doors open up and Shulk lets out a long sigh. He hates this part of his day, downright despises it with every moral fiber of his being. Why did she request him today of all times? After the disaster in Oklahoma City, he certainly did not want to stare down her wrath, shuffling his feet awkwardly and muttering half-baked apologies.

Sounds of hustle and bustle fill the terminal as Shulk jogs up the stairs out into the D.C sunlight. Cheerful blue skies greet the colonel, and he scowls. Too cheery for him at a time like this. So many lives on the line, and here he is doing simpleton work such as reports and catching up with the most powerful person in the world. Such a way to start his week. He places his hands into the pockets of his jacket, shuffling onward. " _Too happy for me. There needs to be a law or limit or something on how many sidewalk chalk creations can fill up a pathway before you can see anything._ "

Nightmares visit his mind as he walks, and all the possibilities of certain death seem to catch up like a slithering snake that hisses venomous whispers into his left ear. The colonel twitches in his neck. He had too many cups of coffee this morning, and the excessive amount of painkillers did nothing to help raise his self-esteem. Clusters of children race by, giggling and basking in the sunlight while Shulk bundles himself deeper into the crevice of his inner cave filled to the brim with self desperation and depression. The happiness of everyone in D.C festers on his skin, irritating him brain deep till it threatens to spill over like a vat of scalding hot water being prepped to help boil potatoes. The constant hammering in his neck causes Shulk to whine to himself as he walks down the streets of D.C.

Shulk stops in front of perhaps the most recognizable building in all of America. Standing stock still on Pennsylvania Avenue, decked in a glorious and enthralling coat of white paint, the American flag blowing in the breeze, is the White House. Inside there lies perhaps the most important person in the world, which could certainly be a stretch, Corrin Etch, president of the United States. She's loved by the populace, and Shulk at dinner parties during his down time will shake his head in confusion at how that is. How someone could be so sneaky yet sweet is like a toddler who robs a blind man. He nods at the guard at the gate and shuffles inside.

He knows the layout of the mansion up to what paintings sit on the walls on what floors, or where particular ingredients are on the kitchen shelves. This is only because Shulk Roberts visits the White House at least a hundred times a year for debriefings and other miscellaneous visits. And every single forsaken time he gets offered a tour by a uniformed official of any and all changes in the estate, which Shulk will then flash one of his 'I hate you, but need to stay professional for the cameras' grin. Then, once he's safe and out of harms way, he retreats to the bathroom where he'll scream at his reflection in the mirror at how people need to start recognizing his face and understanding that this guy visits more than they do that he doesn't even work there!

The colonel walks through the metal detector, retrieving his gun which he had placed on the table for inspection. He digs into his pocket for his wallet, flashing all the proper credentials and such that permitted him to carry a weapon onto the premise of the president. Several guards let him through a quicker line of routine and regulation to an elevator. Shulk nods at them and steps into it, the golden door closing around him. Shulk Roberts downright hates elevators, but it's better than climbing up many, _many_ flights of stairs in a jacket to sweat up a storm. Up the elevator goes, to the Oval Office of the White House.

Shulk looks at his reflection in the glossy walls of the elevator, currently dismayed by the abysmal appearance. He runs a hand through his unkempt wave of blonde hair, reminiscent of the woman he drew on the notebook, which was currently in his back pocket of his jeans. Shulk's sharp and vivid diamond eyes pierce a gaze through the elevator which shakes. He's unsure whether or not the metallic object actually shook in a moment of magic or if it was mechanical failure. However, something about his reflection looks down, and Shulk pinpoints it in seconds. His eyes are furrowed in, the colonel's stare is pointed and sharp.

Today is not a day to mess with colonel Shulk Roberts or you'd get the bull by the horns. One thing to set him off course and cause him to snap, and the blonde would very well perhaps rear his head in at you and charge like a bucking bronco to tackle the offender. Over the elevator's sound system, a horrific, gallantly abhorrent song plays, causing Shulk to develop the innate desire in him to shear his ears off with a cheese grater. _Slice. Dice._ Shulk is messed up, for sure.

The elevator dings when it arrives on his floor and Shulk steps out of the golden prison. Smells of freshly baked cookies wafts through the hallway, and the colonel smiles to himself, taking a huge sniff of the delectable air. Who made or requested cookies? Shulk follows the smell like a bloodhound until he almost literally slams his head into a closed, wooden door. He had been so transfixed on the smell which reminded him of glazed over childhoods, Shulk forgets where he is and what he was doing.

Embarrassed, Shulk's cheeks turn the shade of risqué scarlet. He grabs the knob to the door and blinks. The smell brought him to the... the Oval Office. Well then. Shulk inhales deeply, his chest swelling with a deep breath. He hates this part of the job. Why couldn't he go back to grabbing a gun and shooting insurgents and radicals out in the dusty desert of Arizona or wading through Vineyard Country of California to get completely wasted away by the tangible hands of Chardon? The colonel straightens his jacket, clenches the cuffs of his jacket once for good luck, and knocks.

 _Knock, knock._ The few moments of bated breathing between knocks is an eternity in his heart, and Shulk has half the insane mind to turn on his heel and flee for the hills. No one will take him seriously after he bails in such a ridiculous manner, but this is in the end something he does not care about. He needs to escape the world with his life, leave the dignity behind him. " _The world is mean,_ " Shulk deduces one night, a full bottle of bourbon stirring in his belly while he rants to cohorts like Marth Lowell and Ike Forgenson on the job. " _It's taken so much from me, and the only thing I really want it to take from me is my life, but of course it can't do that? Can it? Of course not._ "

"It's open, colonel." a voice says from the other side of the door, and now there's no turning back.

Shulk's hand eclipses the door knob and turns it slowly, ever so slowly like a snail sliding down a rusty drain pipe. He enters the room of the president, immediately shutting it. Outside of his comfort zone, the colonel still has yet to learn how to act like a normal person deep down. If he's with someone he trusts and or likes, things go well and he is like everyone else you see during the day. Your neighbor, the grocery store manager, even the backstreet farmer with four wives who are all his sisters. Madame President Corrin Etch is neither someone he trusts, nor someone he even remotely tolerates, so that throws all of this out the window.

The chair is turned to the back of him, and Shulk swallows an ounce of fear. It turns, and sitting primly in the main spot of the entire country is the very witch herself, deemed by the blonde colonel in his own words. President Corrin Etch smiles at him as if he's an old friend that she used to play rugby with on the weekends, and instead not the entire representative of the entire Syrenet project who has to explain for the bemoaning failures coming down on the establishment over the past couple of weeks.

"You're early by ten minutes, colonel." Corrin says first, not even muttering a 'hello' or 'how are you?'.

"For how long you've known me, Madame President, then you'd remember I absolutely despise the metro system. The quicker I get on and off of it, the more time I get to froth over what I'm going to say to you." Shulk replies back with a snarky tone, walking up to the desk, his left hand lacing the back of the chair situated in front of the desk.

She leans back, crossing her legs, showing finely tanned legs and swathe black stilettos with heels seven inches thin and as sharp as a needle. "Your tiredness is well noted, _Shulk,_ " Corrin resorts to using his official name as she's got the power in this situation to pull and play with the strings as she does joyfully. She eyes the ring on his finger. "You got married the last time we saw each other?"

He closes his eyes, and _dammit,_ he knew she'd do this to him. This question would come up in some way, shape or form, and here it is, not even a darn minute into their conversation. Shulk bites back tears by chomping down on his cheek, screaming inwardly as the taste of lucid copper fills his mouth. "It's Fiora and I's wedding ring, Madame President."

"Oh! Fiora!" Corrin claps her hands together happily, jubilant as ever, sitting up, face bright. "How is she? I haven't talked to her in so long."

"She's dead," Shulk deadpans back at her, sitting down in the chair. This is the sixth time he's done this to her, wringing Corrin Etch through all the heartache of reliving those two words. Fiora Roberts, Shulk's wife of fifteen years is dead as a doornail somewhere, as he's forgotten where her body is stored and has no need to want to remember where it is laid. "She died three years ago, remember? In Detroit, on one of our missions."

The president locks her jaw. "I forgot... didn't I?"

"You did." he responds.

Corrin stands up from her chair, and that's when he can get a good look at her for the first time in a long time. Her stylish curly wave of snowstorm hair rests at shoulder length, piercing salmon eyes frowning at the revelation. The president, dang good for forty-two, sits at the corner of her desk, gaze at the wall, not looking at Shulk. "You know why I called you in today, right?" She wants to move past the fact that she mentioned his dead wife and knows that he'll do nothing to try and transgress what just transpired as Shulk Roberts is a coward on the subject matters which are sore for him. Corrin Etch shall play him like a fiddle.

"With all the news coverage, I'd find it nearly impossible."

"Good," she says at length, not cold, yet not pleased. "Ninety-six senators have been ringing up my administration for the past four weeks, let alone the fact that Ike and Marth have returned worse for wear. Seeing them like that was... not pleasant."

"It's hard for everyone down at Syrenet."

She nods with reasonable measure. "I assume you got the notice on the page yesterday."

"Yeah. We all did," Shulk was referring to the Syrenet server where all members of the organization got information where those who could not attend briefings would be not left in the dark. A new recruit was coming to join the program, help be a military man and get the ball rolling in places around the country. Who this mysterious individual was would remain just that, a mystery, until his arrival in D.C two days from now. "With the losses inflicted on Syrenet in Oklahoma, getting the notification was more than welcoming."

"I believe he's assigned to your squad, colonel," Corrin snaps her icy gaze at him, causing Shulk to jump in his chair. "Alpha Unit, and he's going to be your right-hand man."

"I have Lucas for that," the blonde argues. "He's more than capable of being there for me than someone in actual human flesh who can die on me."

"Lucas is a voice inside your head, a figment of virtual reality. Do not compare the AI Unit inside your Syrenet suit to an actual person, colonel."

Shulk's blood runs icy cold as the president goes back to her chair, grabbing a folder in the far corner. He observes her distantly, noting the rhythmic drumming she made with her fingers, or the occasional _click-pop_ of her tongue. "His file is actually right here," she says. Corrin looks up, deciding to jump topics. "Turns out my husband will be in town over the next week. He wants to have dinner with Robin and most of the administration, but he also requested you be there."

The colonel finds this to be surprising. It was no surprise that whenever something went wrong with Syrenet, the grandiose husband of president Corrin Etch, senator of New York, Cloud Gladwell, would be in D.C to address every detail and action of his spouse like an overbearing protective mother to their ten year-old. When Corrin became president, her husband who was already in the Senate had no desire to drop his day-time job to become First Gentleman or somesuch. Shulk still gets baffled on occasion seeing Corrin and Cloud together for photos as the two have such contrasting personalities that marriage is an impossibility that by a sheer chance of luck became reality.

"He did that?"

"A request," Corrin nods, lips turned upwards in a devilish smirk. "I personally don't know why my husband wants _you_ there, you would have been invited anyways, but that answer will have to wait till next week when he's here," she stands up, mind spiraling into a rant. "That reminds me, actually. Cloud was the only one of the four senators who didn't call or text me about the Oklahoma City riot. Perhaps it's because it'll be addressed why he wasn't worried, but in hindsight, colonel, it makes me laugh. I have all of these statesmen and stateswomen who are worried sick out of their minds that this rioting thing against the Syrenet project has gone too far and I should just abandon the project. Ninety-six opinions all said that. I responded back by laughing into my cell phone. The audacity to even suggest I close the branch. Just because a few people have little faith in the message and what they ' _think_ ' may happen, is not reason to suddenly scrap a ten year, established branch, from simply closing its doors. Syrenet is not meant to be a way of tightening control, but it is a way to keep this country afloat. Another... safety precaution if you will. In the last fifty years of our country, we've had twelve presidents, and I'm the only one to get a second term. _I'm_ the only one to have a near perfect approval rate of all of my policies, and these senators think they can question my plans? Hello? It's my program that got you elected in the first place! _My_ administration. The entire country loves me, yet there's backlog... it puzzles me. How can you love everything I do except for one thing, yet still vote for me? Our country is... actually, I _don't_ know what our country is." The president finishes her rant, going to the window.

Shulk sits in silence in his chair. His mind mulls over all of the details absorbed. Ten years ago, a budding little scientist by the name of Rock Scott develops this suit of armor with the ability to have a robot speak to you. Mobile, fully functional, and so he sells the idea to the United States government under the brand name of Sir Network, as the kid was British. That, underneath the helm of the Etch administration turned it into Syrenet, created more and more technological breakthroughs, and voila there came to be the existence of Syrenet as everyone knew, yet not fully loved.

"So... this is what you wanted me to travel from home for? To hear you rant, Madame President?" Shulk says decidedly after a few moments of awkward silence.

Corrin's nostrils flare with anger, but her smile is as sweet and delectable as candy. "In short, yes. That is it. I've got to get all of these senators off my back and I don't think a simple notecard or TV speech will change their minds. I want to use that recruit of yours, and I want to use him well."

Shulk can feel the bristling, carnal energy off of his skin as he sits up. "What did you have in mind?"

Her gaze is sharp, daring, bold, and he's drowning in the senses of all of it. "Have you ever broke a glass ceiling, colonel?"

"Not... not that I recall." Shulk furrows his eyebrows together, not quite getting the gist of what she meant. Figuratively, he heard the expression before. But, with Madame President, she could mean metaphors into the literal thing, it was the way her mind worked.

Corrin places her hands on her desk, leans forward, and smirks. "Well then, get ready. We're breaking one."

Shulk closes his eyes, counting to ten. Once again, no turning back. The blonde opens them, and grins back. Perhaps this could be good. "All right. What is it we're going to do?"

And from then on, Syrenet is to shape the course of the entire country, for better _or_ worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* There we are readers, Chapter #2: Glass Ceilings of Syrenet. I had a blast writing this chapter, as there's so much ambiguity and unanswered doors to be had that I am trying to create a contrived web of lies, suspense and foreign entanglements. Hopefully it's working.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! Hope to see you all for Chapter #3: New Kid on the Block. Love you all! Bye!
> 
> ~ Paradigm of Writing


	3. New Kid on the Block

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, #3: New Kid on the Block. Man, ever since I started planning this piece, this has been the first of the opening ten chapters I have been most excited and thrilled to write, despite the fact that nearly everything in all of my stories makes me excited and causes me to want to write after all, but I digress. 
> 
> Enjoy the third chapter!

* * *

_For every new person I meet, I make a mental snapshot of who they are. To try and comprehend just how many people one runs into in a day is astounding, and that sometimes even the simple nod of your head to acknowledge their existence can make their day is something that'll always make me smile even when I'm withering away in a rocking chair someday._

* * *

He has no idea how he managed to be standing in front of the Syrenet building, but the directions on his phone had indeed pointed him to the right direction. Roy Arcadia looks up from the cellular device, squinting as the sun's harsh rays blinded his clear view of the massive technological structure in front of him. The hustle and bustle of Washington D.C behind him does little to help quell the unrelenting churn of butterflies in his stomach. He runs a hand through his lava brick hair, his gleaming obsidian eyes staring out into the azure sky.

Roy checks the phone again, and his directions are legitimate. He's where he needs to be. The letter says so, the phone call says so... it's a go. Standing before him, doused in a halcyon glow, is the main headquarters of Syrenet. A fifteen story building that rises over the memorials on the other side of the lake, and in a digital moving sign with electric blue letters, Roy gawks at its impressiveness, caught off guard. He had heard a lot about its metal sheen and scientific genius in the academy, but to see it up close was something else. He takes a picture for safekeeping, and digs into his pocket for the letter.

Bestowed to him exactly one week prior, it had read,

_Dear Mr. Arcadia,_

_Allow me to formally introduce myself as the president of the United States, Corrin Etch. While you getting this may come to you as a surprise, I am here to say that this is not a ruse, scheme, or anything otherwise. If you have paid attention to the news in the past few years, the government under my administration has created a branch called Syrenet, a technological army and resource for advancements in the world. Mr. Arcadia, or Roy, if you prefer to be called by your first name, have been selected to join this program and project for the betterment of your career and for the country. You were one of the top students in your graduating class in high school, university, and even in the FBI academy. In exactly one week, you are requested to come to Syrenet headquarters in D.C and be introduced to the staff and learn the ropes of how the program works. Once all of the preliminary stuff is taken care of, you get the option of whether or not you'd like to join or decline in doing so. If you are to decline, the existence of you being accepted into Syrenet must never be revealed to anyone as this is top secret information. However, if you wish to become a member here, then the more the merrier. There is an assignment that has been developed for Syrenet that has created alarm here in D.C. Your mission will be this undertaking as a member of Syrenet. I, personally, will not be able to attend this meeting and introduction, so this will do for now. I hope you have an amazing time while you're there, and make sure you think long and hard about what is being presented to you. This opportunity, if declined, will not come around the bend again for you. Have a good day, Mr. Arcadia._

_~ Sincerely, the president of the United States, Corrin Etch._

His heart hammers in his chest like a snare drum as he inches forward against the stone ground. Roy has never, in the twenty-six years that he's been alive, done something like this. Not once, as a teen, did he ever dream of joining the FBI, but only two months ago he had graduated and was allowed to become an officer. Never did Roy fathom that he would get a personal request from the president of the United States to join a branch of unprecedented power and prestige. Needless to say, Roy Arcadia was a teensy bit nervous, if that was allowed.

Roy's hands tug on the door handle into the headquarters, and he passes over the threshold into Syrenet's main building. An instant gust of cold hits his skin and goose bumps erupt all over his exposed arms. He shivers, hugging his sides tight as he continues to walk in. His tennis shoes make ghastly loud echoes on the tile which resonate and reflect off the granite and marble chiseled walls. On the walls were Latin and English phrases in a fancy bronze color, written fancily in some form of archaic manuscript. He cranes forward to try and read one, but is unable to due to the sun's glare.

In the center of the lobby is a desk, and a blonde haired woman sitting at it. He walks over, careful not to have his sneakers squeak against the tile. The woman's back is turned to him as she's typing at a computer. Roy clears his throat awkwardly, teetering back on his heels. She pauses, turns around in the chair, and her face immediately brightens. The woman is dressed in a tight pink blouse, her hair swooped down like an 'M' on the sides of her face. He catches the name tag and it reads _Peach._ His nose wrinkles. Who names their child after a fruit?

"Hello. How are you today?" Peach asks sweetly, folding her arms over one another.

"I'm good." Roy nods, smiling. Seemed to be going well so far.

"What can I help you with?"

He shows her the crumpled letter in his hand, and Peach claps giddily, throwing Roy off kilter for a moment as he didn't expect a grown woman to be prancing around the office space like a toddler. "Oh! You're Roy Arcadia, aren't you?" the redhead nods dutifully at the question. "I'll let Shulk know you're here. He's the one who'll be guiding you around on this tour. All you have to do is go to the elevators on my right, and go to basement floor three, or BF3. Okay?"

"Okay?"

"Good. I hope you enjoy your stay." Peach shakes his hand, and he goes off.

" _Enjoy my stay?"_ Roy frowns to himself, going over the statement in his head. " _What is this? Some sort of hotel? Am I being duped here?_ "

The redhead steps into the elevator, and lets the doors close around him. The elevator is drowned out in greyscale, gray lights hanging in the corners, an iodine colored air vent jutting out just slightly to give Roy a mild case of OCD. He centers himself on the elevator's paneling, and presses the BF3 button, which to his surprise does not highlight a grey color, but a sharp and swathe olive green. The slate cube groans and he tenses, fearing it may drop him to a dimension of lord knows where, but his nerves are quickly stilled as the elevator begins to change floors rather swiftly. It was almost as if the gears were moving like melted butter on a pan.

Roy's hands begin to shake, and that's the first time he realizes he's nervous. It's perhaps one of the few times he has ever been nervous in his young life. Asking the popular queen of his highschool, Midna Veracruz out to prom? No deal, he got rejected and punch poured on his head, but Roy left high school that day feeling like a champ. Skydiving for his twenty-first birthday? He was a kamikaze, jumping out of the plane the moment he was given permission to so, using a Go-Pro to film himself smiling the whole time. Getting to meet your potential new boss with all of his shiny Syrenet toys? Now, that was scary.

He closes his eyes and embraces the sounds of the building. In his pierced together darkness, his father's voice still echoes out. Eliwood Arcadia, a weathering man in his sixties with chapped lips and leathery skin, placing his forehead against Roy's, sobbing, and whispering over and over again, _Be safe Roy. Just be safe. Remember who you are, remember who we are. Never lose sight of that._ Roy's confused as to why his dad would be so overcome emotionally to tell him that, and he isn't quite sure whether or not the patriarch of his family had been smoking before he embarked off to D.C for training, but so be it. He's been safe since day one. Least that promise would never die, the one for Eliwood.

The elevator stops at BF3, and the doors slide open for Roy to be met by another freezing gust of air. "Gah!" he cries out, rubbing his arms. "They really need to raise the temperature. It's like, mid April and they're keeping it like an icebox in here." Roy mutters to himself, stepping out of the elevator. It dropped him into a room, with a door that was locked as he tried to open it. The entire room, unlike the elevator which was drowning in silver, was drowning in black. From the couch and bench situated on opposite sides of the room to the water fountain and wall paint, Roy feels as if he transported to one of the levels of hell.

"Okay..." he says, his shoes making even louder echoes. "This transported from totally awesome to totally freaking me out."

He swivels on his heel to see the elevator doors close and the only company he has in the room is gone. Roy is unsure exactly what to do, but is luckily saved by the jingling of someone trying to unlock the door on the other side. He jumps a mile high, actually vaulting so high into the air that he crashes into the ceiling. Pain spreads all over his skull as he swears, rubbing his skull. The door opens and Roy's legs nearly give out underneath him as he's caught off guard.

Standing in front of him, one eyebrow raised, is a blonde man, arms crossed over his chest, a set of keys dangling from his pocket. "Uh..."

Roy blushes immensely, immediately embarrassed. "I'm _so_ sorry! I just got scared is all."

"Are you Roy?" the man asks.

"Yes," he says. "Sir." Roy then adds, unsure of whether or not saying a proper greeting is disrespectful or not.

The blonde offers his hand which the redhead gallantly takes up the offer and shakes vigorously. "I'm Shulk, glad to meet you, kiddo," he retracts from the handshake, feeling limp from the intense greeting. "Sorry to drag you into the basement levels, all the upper floors are more the economic side of Syrenet and stuff. Down here is the cooler side," Shulk also gets a quick case of the shivers. "Man, is it cold in here or is it just me?"

"It's cold in here."

"Come on then, let me get you to someplace warmer. There aren't that many actually stationed in the building over the next couple of weeks, so you're in luck. Introductions can be swift and brief, like they're meant to be," Shulk guides Roy by the shoulder, taking him through the doorway which leads to a hallway. He drops his arm from Roy's back and puts his hands in his pocket. "Syrenet knows you were arriving, as we all got an invoice a few days ago about it. It's safe to say you look different from the profile picture given in your file."

"What do you mean?" Roy frowns.

"Skinnier."

The redhead blushes. "I'm- I'm not a string bean!"

Shulk laughs heartily, causing Roy to flinch. Goodness, the redhead is skittish. "I'm just messing with you," the two stop at a keypad and he types a series of numbers into the keypad. A feminine voice greets them, and the door slides back allowing the two men to enter the room. Roy gawks at the sheer size of the place he stepped into, high rise ceilings with an elaborate system of pipes, tables spread out with blueprints, data sheets, technological parts, a few round tables full of food, and in the back, shooting ranges, dummies, and other fighting gear. Another door with a keypad was in the far right, but to the extent of what Roy saw, that was it. Shulk walks further into the room, throwing his keys on one of the tables. "This, although it doesn't look like much, is our regular room of... well, everything. A cheap gym, a cheap cafeteria, and a laboratory all thrown together because we could. It's dingy because people hardly stay for more than a couple of days at a time, and when we are here, I bet you that none of us Syrenet workers are cramped up in some stupid facility."

"Sleeping of any kind?" Roy asks, looking around, pausing to glance at one of the blueprints on the table.

"Down the hall, but it's only like, four beds. Unless you don't mind sharing, sleep on the floor," Shulk says. He goes to one of the front tables, and Roy follows. "I'm quite unsure of what to do with you, as I've never, _ever_ been in charge of overseeing a new recruit to the program. Usually it's President Etch who does that, but she can't make it, and I have no idea where Ike is so he's no help to me," Roy has no idea who Ike is, but he suspects he'll find out soon enough. Instead of asking a question and burying himself into a hole, he stays quiet. "I was instructed, though, to ask if this is something you want to do. To become a part of Syrenet or not. Because, if you only showed up to see the building and technology but have no interest in becoming one of us, I suggest you leave and not waste anymore of my time. It'd save me a lot of trouble."

Roy bites on his cheek. It's do or die. "I've been thinking about this for a long time... and, I'm definitely want to be a member of Syrenet. No question."

Shulk claps his hands together, glad to get over the hump of that one and out of the way by the evident sagging of his shoulders like pressure had been released from then. "Exactly what I want to hear. Good, then. I guess this is almost like a job interview, except you actually have the job and... I'm just wasting time," he rants, rummaging underneath the desk for something. Roy gets hit with a strong whiff of the smell of copper, almost gagging. Where was that odor coming from? He didn't really want to find out. "Do you have any idea what Syrenet might actually be?"

He racks his brain, trying to find an answer. From what he's seen on TV, not many good things. From what people around him at the Bureau would say, also not something he wished to share. But, being the optimistic man that Roy Arcadia is, he pushed all that negativity out and decided to focus on the positives, which meant he'd make up his own answers for himself as he went along. "N- not really."

"Then allow me to tell you everything there is to know," Roy's face falls, and Shulk immediately stutters. "I'm kidding! Kidding, just kidding!" It turns out that while he was rummaging underneath the desk, he had grabbed a fancy type of iPad. "Syrenet, Mr. Arcadia, is an organization that is almost like a branch of the military, yet we deal with science and technological improvements. Each member of Syrenet has a special suit that is kind of like armor which has a tiny programming inside called an AI Unit. They are the little voice in your head that is omniscient of the Internet and is your eyes in the sky. Over the past couple of months, President Corrin has been instructing us to make little bands of Syrenet stores and facilities around the country to help produce more technological things. As you have seen on the news, that's not been the easiest mission."

"Oklahoma City." Roy gives an example and Shulk nods, the blonde's eyes darkening immediately at the mentioning of the tragic event. The redhead shudders at the contemptuous look. Something was telling him that bringing up tragedy like that would not be good from here on out. Roy also catches that Shulk is wearing a wedding ring, but it looks partially burned, but decides not to comment.

Shulk cracks his knuckles. "The branch here is different from what the others are intended to be. Here, in D.C, Syrenet is like a backup military force. We're given squadrons and missions to carry out, like FBI. It's dangerous work, even with a metal suit that does protect you from most things. To make it easy on us and the White House, there are twenty-six squads for Syrenet, twenty-six groups who can do our government's 'bidding'," he makes air quotes around the word for emphasis, smirking. "I am Shulk Roberts, captain or leader or whatever you want to call it of Alpha Squad, the very first letter in the alphabet... all that good stuff. I get the ragtag group of people, mostly assigned at random. I'm often a one man army. Getting the leftovers can either be an insult or a compliment if you think about it," Shulk ganders, shrugging his shoulders lamely. "Either you're so darn good they can't fit you anywhere, or you're so sucky at it that you don't fit anywhere because of it. Pick it how you may. You, Mr. Arcadia, were assigned to my squad, so now we're a two man team."

Roy isn't quite sure how to take this information. Cry? Laugh? Jump in the air and wave your hands like you just don't care? He also isn't quite too keen on having the blonde be his 'boss' or something like that. Shulk is far too zany and by the looks of it, deranged for his tastes. All Roy can do is nod and hope Shulk doesn't quite catch the tone of his voice. "Cool."

"The squads are all situated around the country doing god knows what, but it isn't my job to know what they're doing anyways-"

"Can we go back a few minutes here?" Roy interrupts, then wishing he hadn't as Shulk flashes him perhaps the most vicious glare he's ever seen, one so sharp and brutish that it causes the chills and shudders to evolve into downright shaking.

Shulk's jaw locks evidently. "About what?"

"AI Units."

The man's face brightens, and you would have never thought that just a few moments ago, mere seconds rather, he was upset and ticked off. Huh. Shulk gets up from the desk and goes to the far wall by one of the mini fridges in the room. Roy watches with peculiar fascination as Shulk grabs a metal disk off the counter and walks back to him. "There's someone I'd like you to meet!"

The redhead juts his chin at the metal device. "In there?"

"Yep! Roy, I'm pleased to introduce my AI unit, Lucas." Shulk says, placing the metal disk on the desk and clicking the black button in the middle of it. Once Shulk presses it, the button slid back into the disk, which flattened out. A hazy blue light covers the disk and right in front of Roy's eyes which are wide in disbelief, a technological form appears in front of him, full color, too.

The AI Unit, Lucas, as Shulk calls it, was only standing at about a foot tall off the disk, meaning Roy had to lean in to view him properly. Clearly a boy, Lucas was dressed in a bright halcyon and cardinal striped shirt, wearing jeans, with a crop of lemonade hair frisked upwards like an ice cream cone. Lucas, who couldn't have appeared to be older than maybe eleven, yawned. "What is it Shulk? I was having a nice dream about-" Lucas blinks, realizing he and his Syrenet companion weren't the only ones in the room. "Who's this?"

" _This_ , is Roy Arcadia, our new Syrenet recruit. Roy, this is Lucas Dio, my AI unit." Shulk introduces the two of them.

Lucas's irritated, pale face replaces itself with that of a huge grin, and the kid waves back and forth like a maniac. "Hi! Nice to meet ya, mister! I'm Lucas!"

"Roy," the redhead nodded back. "Shulk... what exactly is he?"

"I'm a piece of programming, Mr. Arcadia," Lucas answers for the older male, sitting down in his hologram. "A file created by a technician and stored onto this disk. I was programmed to be an eleven year-old boy, blonde, blue eyes, smart, and resourceful. I am the unit inside Mr. Roberts's suit while he fights, helping him through all these troubles."

"It blows my mind to see this..." Roy says, examining Lucas over with his eyes. "Does every suit have one?"

"Every suit," Shulk nods. "And let me answer a question if it's directed at me, please Lucas," he says to his AI unit who nods. He looks back at Roy. "You'll have one too, when Pit lets you pick one out. Pit is the technician who has single-handedly developed all of the suits and all of the units, not very much of a fighter. He's somewhere in the building, and you'll meet him soon," the blonde rubs his chin. "Though it may sound boring and perhaps completely unrealistic, Lucas has an entire digital world as his playground. I turn off the sensor and he goes back into his own little paradise that none of us can see or interact with unless he decides to show it to you. Lucas is-"

"I'm a giver!" the boy cries happily. "I love showing you what I have. There's my digital coin collection, my digital garden, my digital library on William Shakespeare... there's-"

"Hold up!" Roy interrupts again. "William Shakespeare? If he's ten, shouldn't that be a digital comic book collection or..."

"Don't try to think about it for too long, Roy. Lucas was programmed as a kid, yes, with a personality like one, but has adult tastes. After all, he's a robot in some aspects, so I can imagine there isn't much out there he cannot understand or enjoy."

"Do you want me to sing to you in Spanish, Mr. Arcadia?"

"I'm good, thank you..." the redhead quickly downs that idea.

Shulk rolls his eyes at Lucas's playfulness. "Anyways... that brings me to my next point. You agreed to be a Syrenet member, so President Corrin wanted me to give you this," he reaches behind the desk again and hands Roy a folder. Lucas rocks back and forth on his heels, already reading what it contained from behind the folder, waiting for the reaction. "It's a mission for you."

Roy flips it open, heart racing. " _Day one and they're already throwing me to the wolves? What gives? Oh, well. I guess I can do whatever it is they want me to do..."_ he thinks. Inside the folder was a data page, chock full of writing and pictures. A single face appeared on an index card paper clipped to the folder. A man with maple blonde hair, stunning diamond eyes, all decked out in green, and underneath the picture a name of _Link Collins_. "Who's he?" Roy questions, looking up from the folder.

The leader of Alpha Squad had been distracted by Lucas's antics, the blonde AI Unit who was currently running around his tiny visible circle jumping and doing kicks like a crazed kid on sugar. Which he probably was. Shulk blinks momentarily, then catches back on track. "Link Collins is an arms dealer, a weapons builder. President Corrin has had him on our payroll for the past five years, but in the past month there have been some oddities surrounding his entire operation. Four of his manufactures have been reporting missing merchandise... rocket launchers, some sniper rifles, things of that nature. However, Link has not given _us_ a statement on his losses. The rebels in Oklahoma City that attacked us were all using those same weapons that have gone missing from the Midwestern states. No attacks have been reported at any of the sites either, so President Corrin-"

"She feels that he's now selling the weapons he would be giving us to them. He'd be betraying us an aiding a terror effort, then?" Roy finishes for him.

"Exactly!" Lucas pumps a tiny, digital fist. Shulk sighs.

"I'm going to turn you off if you can't normal for once, kiddo," he says, then returns to the redhead. "What Lucas reiterated, I suppose. While it may seem sudden, you were the best of the best in your graduating year like the letter said, and President Corrin feels it is necessary we get all operatives out and functioning. Link Collins is situated in Boston right now, and that's where your mission will be. I don't know too much else about it other than the fact that I am not leading you in this work. The head director of the FBI, Snake Karlo, is in charge, which Corrin deemed was the best. You want someone who can get infiltrate enemy lines with help, not get seen or need to kill and get out? Snake's your guy."

"Great!" Roy nods, although his mind was on full panic mode as everything felt to be coming at him just way too fast, and he was unsure exactly of how to handle it. "Am I going to get a suit, or what's the deal-"

Turns out he didn't have to wait very long at all for his wish to come true. Some voices were heard back by the gym section, Shulk's lip curling up into a smirk. Two men appeared from behind the row of punching bags, one with striking cobalt hair, the other a brunette. Shulk steps in front of Roy, while Lucas sits on his disk. "Didn't you know that we had a recruit coming in today and you decide to teach Pit how to spar?"

"Excuse me, princess," the cobalt haired man retorted, taking the last swig of the water bottle in his hand before crushing it and throwing it in the garbage can. "The guy needs to learn how to fight back in case rebels storm the castle or something."

"Highly unlikely, Ike," Shulk rolls his eyes, turning to Roy. "Roy, this is Ike Forgenson, commander of Beta Squad. He's exactly one rank beneath me in terms of superiority, so he's _also_ your boss."

Ike shakes Roy's hand firmly, and the redhead winces at the other man's strong grip. He's almost envious of the guy's body, easily towering over six feet with bulging muscles underneath the swamped and soaked sweaty t-shirt. A red headband was tied around his forehead, now dark black from the sweat. "I'm Ike. Pleased to meet you, Roy." Roy notices that his right arm was in a sling, all bandaged up.

"What happened to you?" he asks, and then he almost wishes he hadn't.

"He was in Oklahoma City when the rebels attacked," the other guy, a far skinnier and leaner man than Ike says, at the main console, greeting Lucas with a wave. "He and another commander named Marth were some of the only ones to survive, and the only injury left that Ike has is the broken shoulder," an extended hand after the sentence. "I'm Pit, Pit Icarus. Pleasure." Pit's head of mahogany hair was only slightly dampened in the front, not all too messy. When he turned, Roy get an eyeful of white, pallid feathery wings, and then everything made no sense after that.

"Don't mind those," Ike instructs, also saying hello to Lucas. "Pit has been wearing those things since like four Halloweens ago. He dressed up like an angel, or Cupid or something stupid and he liked them so much that he kept him on."

"He's not lying." Pit chuckles to himself.

"Pit is the technician who created all of these suits and AI units you see," Shulk comments. "He's very good at what he does."

"I second that!" Lucas cheers. "I mean, just look how I turned out."

"Well someone is a little vain today," Ike grumbles. "Did you catch Roy here up to speed on Boston?"

"With all that I could tell him from the folder, yeah."

Pit straightens himself from the desk of clutter he had stopped at, a keycard in his hand. "Hey, Roy, come here for a moment. Since you'll be in Boston in like three days, I got to give you a Syrenet suit. There's about six currently left unused or I can stay up all day and all night for the next two days to create your own custom one with an AI unit that you handpicked."

"I'll browse at the old ones..." Roy stutters, following Pit.

The brunette stops at the keycard and swipes it, letting Roy go first into the new hallway. Ike watches the two leave, and then directs himself to Shulk who was tapping away at the iPad. A beer replaces the crushed bottle of water, and the navy haired man downs in a few satisfying gulps, before tossing the can behind him, not looking at where he put it.

"Ike, please go and throw the can away," Shulk does not bother to look up from the iPad. "Just because you're wounded is not an excuse to not act like a decent human being and pick up your garbage."

"Jeez," he mutters, getting the can. "Who peed in your cornflakes today?"

Lucas's face grimaces into one of disgust. "That sounds disgusting."

"It's an expression, Lucas." Shulk sighs, rubbing his forehead in contentment.

"The newbie seems kind of cool," Ike remarks, sitting down at one of the tables. "Like, stuck between being mystified out of your mind and downright confused. That was me too, though."

"Corrin is going to throw him into an armed landmine field."

"Is that so?"

"What makes you say that?" Lucas asks.

Shulk looks up from the iPad, blue eyes a stormy gray. "Think about it for a second, kiddo. It's a new recruit already given an assignment that sounds far worse and far more dangerous than the ones we were given when Ike and I started out. Link Collins is the kingpin of firearms and you're just going to have some greenie infiltrate a compound of his, monitor his legal activity, stay on Link's good side, _and_ not die? If that's not asking Roy to perform a miracle, I don't know what will."

Ike frowns. "Maybe you just have to give the kid more credit where it's due. You said that Snake is going to be helping him? I reckon that's a good thing."

"I don't know, Ike..." Lucas trails off.

The leader of Alpha Squad turns off the iPad, now bringing his attention back up to the two of them. "Whatever President Corrin has planned, let's just hope it doesn't kill him, okay?"

No one seconds his thought, though it is all mutually accepted under one guise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally wasn't expecting to have another update so soon, but I just wrote this from like 10:30ish or so now and I'm posting it as my hands hurt, my back hurts, and I'm tired as heck. Oh well, that was Chapter #3: New Kid on the Block. This didn't exactly play out as I originally thought of it as time went on, but we'll get there. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! I love you all so much! Hope to see you for Chapter #4: Smuggling Negotiations.


	4. Smuggling Negotiations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, #4: Smuggling Negotiations. we were introduced to our real main character, Roy Arcadia, a new recruit to Syrenet, along with Lucas Dio, the AI Unit inside Shulk's suit, and a brief introduction to Pit Icarus, the main technician at Syrenet. Today we're introduced to even more characters (there's always someone new to meet around every corner so get used to it for awhile).
> 
> Enjoy Chapter #4: Smuggling Negotiations

Link Collins nods his head at the secret service guard positioned outside the closed doors into the Oval Office. The blonde man cracks his neck, cracks his knuckles, and then flashes a creepy smile at the guard who flinches. A groaning sound comes from the door as it is swung open, revealing the grand and glorious bald eagle on the carpet drowned in a navy circle.

He steps into the room, slamming the door shut. The echo rings around the pallid walls, causing the woman in the chair to spin around, almost out of surprise. President Corrin Etch realizes who it is, her face of fright replacing itself with a withering scowl. "Who let you in?" she asks, venom dripping off of her words like a drop of molasses sliding off a spoon.

"Your guards," he replies with a snarky tone, clapping his hands together and waltzing up to the chair turned in front of her desk. "It seems like they're letting their _guard_ down, don't you say? Allowing someone like me in this beautiful building?"

She winces at his distasteful pun, which she didn't even find that funny to begin with. Corrin places her hands over her desk, laced together, and smiles sweetly. "Link, do me a favor and get the hell out of here and off my property."

"Your property?" Link raises an eyebrow at her, almost mockingly. "Sounds like someone is pretentious of themselves."

"You know what I meant."

"Then press that button and get the armed guards in here," he challenges, getting right in her face, almost so close that their noses are touching, a brimming feeling of electricity and rage striking through the connected bridge of flesh. "Watch in glee as I kill them all, then, Mrs. Etch. Or... you let me at the very least talk with you, because I've never seen a lady such as yourself reject a gentleman who simply wishes to chat."

Corrin considers his terms for a moment, her right hand lifting up from the red button sticking out underneath her desk. She sits back in her chair. "I hardly believe you came to _talk_ with me, Mr. Collins."

"What? I can't be an honest man?" he feigns surprise, taking serious, _serious_ offense at the audacity of her statement.

She closes her eyes and counts to ten, darkness covering over the smirking expression on his face. Corrin's fists relax into palms facing downwards on the desk. "Fine. You can stay."

"Good!" Link claps his hands giddily, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the desk. Her left eye begins to twitch uncontrollably, and she goes as far as to smack herself in the face so he couldn't see the irritation within her. "Man, I haven't been able to actually sit down and relax in who knows how long," he eyes her with a grin. "I mean, I don't know how your people stand it, taking the metro. All those tourists and foreigners who don't know up from down. It's a nuthouse down there. I probably didn't spend more than like five minutes underneath the ground and I was crawling at the walls to get out of there."

Corrin places a fist underneath her chin, tuning in with the ever so flawless blinking of her eyes and an upturned lip. "Is that so? Shame you didn't decide to stay down there and rot."

Link makes a downed face. "Hey, what's with the attitude?"

"Because you're showing up whenever you want and you're interrupting my work. I'm very busy, you know." she says pointedly.

"Oh, and what, pray tell, is occupying all of your time?" he snaps.

She looks a little dejected by this criticism and rubs her shoulder innocuously. "Cr- crossword puzzles." Corrin stutters. " _Crossword puzzles, Corrin? Is that really the best you could've come up with in front of the most influential and powerful arms dealer in the country?"_

"Crossword puzzles?" Link raises an eyebrow. "The president of the United States of freaking America is doing crossword puzzles?"

"So I have some downtime and I'm filling it with leisure." she chews on the inside of her cheek.

"Robin sure doesn't have any downtime from what I've seen." Link says, running a finger down his cheek, rubbing some stubble from an aftershave.

The president's eyebrows rise some on her brow at the mention of the vice president, her most trustworthy advisor. "And how would you know what Robin Wyndel is busy, Link?"

"I ran into her on the way here," he explains nonchalantly. "Very busy it seemed. Mentioned something about my next supplies shipment going to the Syrenet project," a light bulb went off in his head, evident by the brightening of his eyes. Link leans forward, dropping his feet off the desk. "I must say congratulations are in order."

"For what?" Corrin's skin is itching from being near the pest, so she gets up and goes to the window. She's dressed in a winter sweater, black and tight hugging her entire waist. "Last I checked, I dropped a few points in the poll approval rating."

Link rolls his eyes. "I'm not talking about that, Corrin. I'm talking about Syrenet! I heard you got a new recruit yesterday, someone young, snazzy, and definitely better than Shulk Roberts," he rubs his hands on his jeans. "You run that guy all over the country, and I fear that at forty his heart is going to give out from all the painkillers and stress relievers he takes from the job."

"I'm sure he appreciates your concern, and I'll give Shulk your condolences," Corrin says sharply from the window. Her back tightens. "How would you've heard about the new Syrenet recruit? I didn't announce it on TV yet, and I've asked no one in that department to say anything either."

"I had Robin tell me. She mentioned it off handedly before vanishing further into this mansion of a place you call the White House," Link answers, picking at his fingernails, looking back up at her. He breaks off, seeing the half confused, half angry face on the president. "What's wrong?"

Corrin's brain searches for answers. Why would her vice president tell Link Collins about the new Syrenet recruit unless... unless... " _You're getting way too ahead of yourself Etch, calm down. Your vice president isn't in cahoots with the man. For God's sake, are you losing it? Actually, I very well may be,"_ she thinks darkly, before swallowing. "Nothing." Corrin says. She observes Link back by the window. He's in his late twenties, handsome and strong. His maple blonde hair reaches down to about mid-neck, a sapphire earing in his left ear highlighting that side of his complexion very nicely. She notices that he's dressed in the same type of outfit he's always seen in around D.C, an olive-green hunting jacket and rugged worn boots.

Link reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigar and a lighter. "Excuse me for a second..."

"You can't smoke in here." she interrupts him.

"And what are you going to do, Corrin? Fine me?" he retorts. She bites down on her tongue, almost swearing. "That's what I thought," Link takes a puff on the cigar, a ring of pallid smoke leaving his lips and splattering over the light fixture above the desk. "That hits the spot," he says, holding the cigar between his middle and pointer finger on his left hand. "So, what can you tell me about the new recruit?"

"You know I can't do that," Corrin shakes her head, returning to her desk. "Confidentiality. We're at the point where even his name is up for-"

" _His_ name?" Link smiles. "Well, I do know that he's a guy now, so thank you for that."

She mentally kicks herself underneath the table. "Besides, I don't know why you'd want to know anyways, it's not like you'll be running into him on a daily basis."

He regards this with a tip of the head. "Yes, that is true," Another puff on the cigar and an exhalation that sounds like music to the president's ears. "But, I do want to know who my weapons are going to, especially if my new shipment is for their program. I'm just surprised you had someone wish to be in _the_ program after what happened in Oklahoma. I didn't take those rebels seriously, but now I think I need to up the amp just to give you all a fighting chance."

"I actually sought after this one," Corrin replies at a draw, running her hand on the desk. "I wanted to have someone new join the ranks and give the old guys some morale. Felt like it was time. Besides, one man can hardly atone for the thirty or so I lost out in Oklahoma."

"No, it can't. It can't," Link agrees. Silence envelops the Oval Office for a mere second, before he leans forward, cigar sticking out between his teeth. "Is there anything, _absolutely_ anything you can tell me about him that _won't_ compromise him to anyone? Like, seriously, what am I going to do with that information?"

" _A lot actually,_ " Corrin smirks to herself before going over everything in her head. "I did look over his entire file. Name, date of birth, age, height and weight, general stuff like that. There was more miscellaneous crap than anything else."

"So there's gotta be something."

"Well, I know his favorite type of pasta."

"Pasta?" the blonde leans his head back and laughs raucously, the joyous noise reverbing all around the White House. "Why, in heaven's name, is that on a file about your workers?"

"General things he likes," Corrin shrugs. "Look, don't be pointing fingers at me over here. I didn't design the thing."

"But, since you said you know everything about this gentleman, tell me, what _is_ his favorite type of pasta?"

Corrin does not bat an eye as she replies, "Linguini."

"I always thought that stuff was weird. But, hey, I can't do anything about that," Link takes another puff of the cigar before offering it to her. "Want a puff?"

She sighs. It is never good for a person of public image to go out on a limb and be risky like the way she's about to, but decides why not? Corrin takes the cigar and hesitantly places it in her mouth. The taste is weird, bizarre, and horribly bitter. She takes a drag, before coughing her lungs out onto the table as the cigar drops to the desk. Link watches back with a grin before taking the cigar back into his own mouth and chews on it.

"Good god," Corrin coughs, placing the crook of her left elbow up to her mouth. "What is in that thing?"

"Uh... tobacco?" Link raises an eyebrow. "I take it that you aren't a smoker?"

"No, and that is definitely not helping me," she grimaces, wiping the muck off of her tongue to the floor, which collided to the carpet like a plop of feces. " _I_ do however like tequila. That stuff hits the spot."

"Great," the arms dealer intones darkly. "A drunk politician. All you'd have to be is a man and add a beer belly. You'd like perfect for the titular role of the president of the United States."

Corrin groans down into the sole of her shoes. She's gotta think of something to get the rascal out of her sight or otherwise the whole conflict could go on for ages, and ages she couldn't spend dealing with literal trash. Again, literal trash she was having a willing conversation with at that. "When's your flight?"

Link smashes the cigar into an ashtray placed conspicuously far away from Corrin's chair. "A few hours. It's why I stopped by, actually. I've seen the Smithsonian and all the memorials more times than I count from being here on business, so since I knew you'd be home and not stuck in a meeting or hostage crisis, I could see my favorite politician."

"I'm the only politician who tries to stand you." Corrin can almost feel the shudder coming.

"Exactly!" he grins. "Flight is out of Reagan, and my chauffer can get me there in minutes."

"I thought you took the metro."

"I'm not taking the metro out to the airport. Are you crazy?" Link looks at her with a half deranged look. He stands up, shaking her hand. "Anyways, you've gotten boring, not being able to stand me and all. I might as well go terrorize pigeons by the Washington Monument. Least they'd be better than you." He doesn't even bother to say goodbye, and there Link goes, sauntering out of the Oval Office without a care in the world.

The insult stings somewhat on Corrin's conscious and so she calls back as Link turns around the corner. "Well- well at least a pigeon dresses better than you do! They don't smoke and they don't put their boots on people's desks such as myself!" She crosses her arms like an upset little school girl and leans back in her chair.

As Link bounds around the corner to race down the steps, another person she's upset with comes up the stairs herself, clutching a clipboard. Corrin's expression turns back to that of pure annoyance, seeing in the flesh Vice President Robin Wyndel. The woman is walking hurriedly towards the Oval Office, her own wave of blizzard white hair tucked back into a stout ponytail. Robin stops in the middle of the room, then closes the door.

"I was wondering when he'd leave..." she says, shaking her head, flipping the top page of the clipboard over.

Corrin locks her jaw. "Robin... why did you tell Link about our new Syrenet recruit? You _do_ realize that the guy who just got hired is the same person who'll be tailing him in Boston tomorrow?"

Robin rubs the back of her neck, frowning. "I didn't mention his name or anything of the sort! It was simply done in passing."

"Then why do you feel the need to share D.C's business with those who don't deserve finding out about it?"

"You said it yourself, Corrin. You gave me specific instructions since we became political friends that we'd share information with all those who we're working with, good or bad. Link Collins constitutes as that, and so I gave him a simple hint into what's going on. No harm done."

The president rubs her face, overcome by a sudden lapse of tiredness. Robin watches from a distance, unsure whether or not to get closer. If Robin Wyndel could be described in a few simple steps, it'd go like this. 1. Charismatic and kind to a T, almost like a fatal flaw. 2. Motherly to those who didn't deserve it, simply as she once had children who were young kids and felt the need to nurture and protect them. 3. Complete opposite of Corrin Etch. Robin is the voice of reason, Corrin is the sword at your throat.

Robin was no more than a one term senator from North Carolina when Corrin invited her over to her house in New York to discuss the possibility of being a running mate. Robin was, like every other person who'd ever meet the future president, sucked in by elusive charm and soft smiles that didn't mean much other than surface intent. All a great lie, of course. So the tag team duo, often coined as the White Haired Witches by their opponents due to their white hair, came to win the election with an outstanding sweep of every state in the nation besides Minnesota, akin to Ronald Reagan versus Walter Mondale back in 1984.

She finds herself taking the backside of many policies and decisions, letting Corrin's brash nature do most of the work, and she's fine with it, as being the Vice President means you don't make that much of an impact, and then, BAM, you sweep in from behind as being an amazing debater, financial and mathematical genius, and an overall likable person. Robin Wyndel can steal that title in a New York minute.

Corrin gets up from her chair, going around to sit on the front of the desk. "If Link proves out to be innocent, I may just end him myself for the disrespect he gave this office and what it stands for."

"That'd hardly be good for the polls."

"Let my cabinet tell me that, Robin," she pauses, tapping a heel on the carpet. "What's new?"

"I just got off the phone with FBI director Snake Karlo," Robin answers, putting a piece of her hair behind her ear. "He's ready for Roy whenever he arrives, camp set and everything. Found out that Link is going to be hosting a dinner party at some fancy Italian restaurant by one of his complexes on the outskirts of the Boston city limits, and then... whatever happens from there on out, I suppose."

The president nods at all of this information. "Okay. Let me know if anything changes in that regard. I'm going to call Cloud. I haven't talked to him today and usually by this hour we've checked up on one another at this point."

Robin nods, going to excuse herself. The vice president bustles out of the Oval Office, stopping with one foot exiting the threshold, the other stuck on navy carpet. She places a manicured hand against the wall lining, turning back to face her superior of sorts. "Corrin?" she asks.

"What?"

"Do you think Link is innocent? That he isn't selling weapons to the rebels?"

Corrin straightens herself up. "Honest answer?" Robin shakes her head in assent. "No. I think that smug son of a you know what is guilty, and we're about to publicly execute him. _That's_ my prediction."

* * *

_Shulk pauses on the edge of the doorstep to his house. The amicable and happy sounds of children playing in the street echo around in his brain, the sound of a puck in air hockey hitting the barriers, being rebounded into the goal, and it is more cheer than he can handle. The blonde's gaze traces over every crevice of the house, and he makes a faint smile at the cracked lines in the plaster, or the name written in black ink over the front door. ~ Shulk and Fiora Roberts, forever and ever happily married._

_The grip on his suitcase goes lax as he sets it down on the concrete sidewalk. He brushes some of his hair out of his eye, grinning. A flower is beginning to bloom on the windowsill, a perfectly poised sunflower with radiating halcyon petals and a dark, warm mahogany center. He goes over to it and picks it from the soiled pot. "She'll love it." he whispers to himself, clutching the flower to his chest._

_He returns to the porch and walks forward, feet causing the wood to groan and buckle underneath him. Shulk frowns, reaching for the doorknob which grows a face and snarls back at him. Shulk recoils. Did the knob, the doorknob just snarl at him? He tries again, and then there's an ear splitting shriek that rips through the sky. The house explodes in a supernova, the blast causing Shulk to fly back to the grass. The blonde groans as his head collides with solid dirt, and then he looks up groggily._

_Shulk stands in panic, lucky to not be on fire, let alone injured. "Fiora!" he roars, cupping his hands around his mouth. The house is gone up in a blaze, the porch beginning to crack. Smoke billows out the windows, and he realizes that he dropped the sunflower somewhere in the grass. He seizes it and then cries out as it crumbles into a pile of dust and ash in his ever darkening hands._

_A woman's voice breaks through the chaos and Shulk's eyes snap towards the entrance of the house where he lets out the worst sound he's ever made in his entire life. "Fiora!" he yells again. Through the smoke, the ash, and the cardinal flames, he can barely make out her smoldering body. She is crawling towards the entrance, every step causing the woman to groan. She looks up and he catches sight of her charred lemonade hair, her dangerously bright diamond eyes, and a half burned face with flesh falling off._

_"Shulk!" she cries out, before the flames engulf her._

_"Fiora!" Shulk screams once more, racing towards the fire. He reaches her, he reaches her, he reaches her, and then..._

_Nothing._

"FIORA!" Shulk screams, waking up.

The metallic disk resting against his shoulder comes to life, and appearing from the frazzled darkness and blue wired mess is Lucas's frame, sad and fearful. "Shulk?" he whimpers. "What's wrong?"

The blonde sighs, rubbing the sides of his face heavily. "It's nothing, Lucas. Go back to sleep."

"What was it?"

"A nightmare." he says reluctantly.

"Of?"

"Fiora." Shulk bites down on his lip, feeling the tears coming.

"Oh. I- I'm sorry," Lucas looks down, shuffling his feet awkwardly. "Do you want me to wake Lyn so she can wake Ike up? I'm sure he'll listen to whatever is troubling you..."

He smiles at his AI unit, touched by the sweetness within him. If he could ruffle his AI unit's hair, he would. "It's okay, Luke. Thanks for being considerate. Go back to sleep, okay?"

"O- okay..." the blonde boy frowns, before shutting off once more.

Shulk rubs at his face again and yawns. He shuts his eyes tight, tighter than perhaps what he's ever done before going back and trying to rest. He stirs somewhat, resting his cheek on his outstretched right arm.

In his sleep, Shulk Roberts dreams of ice crystals and earthquakes.

And one simple, fair haired maiden named Fiora.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN, DUN, DUN! Ladies and gentlemen, there we have it, Chapter #4: Smuggling Negotiations, when I just realized there weren't any negotiations to be had, but I like that title so I'm keeping it. Anyways, the latest entry to Syrenet is complete folks! When I say that I love Link Collins's character, I mean it. I. LOVE. LINK. COLLINS! I haven't written Link like this ever before, almost like a mobster who somewhat does and does not have gentlemen's manners, an attitude, and boy oh boy.
> 
> Hope to see you all for Chapter #5: The Boston Target. Please comment and let me know what you thought, especially on Link and what dream Shulk just had at the end of this chapter. Love you all so much! Bye!
> 
> ~ Paradigm


	5. The Boston Target

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, #5: The Boston Target.

* * *

_The Boston Target dressed in green and black and blue with a coffer grin and a cigar between ashy lips._

* * *

Roy finally understands what it means to be out of place. With all the bustling of the Boston Operation, crates of technological equipment that he can't even spell, the rough tongues of western accents and northern dialects, the sounds of motorized trucks moving down the freeways... the commotion and commerce, he shouldn't be here. Roy Arcadia is out of his element.

The redhead hugs his sides tighter, remembering Shulk's last words before he stepped onto the plane heading out from D.C. " _Trust no one that can't trust you._ " Shulk's words ring in his head. Sounds simplistic enough, he supposes. He's just upset that Corrin herself couldn't be the one to ship him off to his death. Hah, he's running scared. Roy Arcadia thinks he's going to die.

He's hunched over, sitting on a box of loaded ammo for sniper rifles, the jutting of the plastic hurting his legs as he shifts on his perch uncomfortably. Roy's holding a metallic disk in his hands, likewise to the one Shulk used when showing off Lucas. It's his AI Unit, given by Pit himself. His armor is sitting in a suitcase just a few feet away from him in arm's reach, a gorgeous metallic suit dyed a putrid scarlet, like rippling waves of blood. The brunette's jovial smile warms Roy's heart as he realizes that he misses everyone at the compound a lot. Ike shipped himself out to the Virginian countryside for a few days with Pit to go and visit a friend that he has yet to meet, meaning Shulk is left all alone at headquarters to his nightmares with Lucas as his accompaniment. Not that the blonde AI Unit can't be friendly, not at all.

Roy looks around and sees that no one any time soon is going to go over to him and talk. No one wants to chat with the new kid. He shouldn't even be here. The redhead sighs, giving in and pressing the button in the middle of the circular metal disk. The outer ring lights a deep fuchsia before sprouting out a blueberry glow. Appearing before him is his AI Unit, the one and only Ness Morrison.

Ness pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head in dissent. "You're doubting yourself again, aren't you?"

"N- no..." Roy sputters.

The soldier bites on his lower lip, having a confession to make. " _I'm absolutely doubting myself. I'm nervous beyond nervous and there's nothing I can do about it. If I back out, I'm fired. I advance into whatever this is, I'm probably going to get killed._ " On second thought, maybe speaking to Ness is not the best idea. His AI Unit was designed to be about thirteen or fourteen, and the equivalent of one of those smart alecks in class that you wanted to punch in the face half the time yet needed their company. People like that confuse Roy Arcadia way too much.

His AI Unit rocks back and forth on his heels, Ness's dark wave of raven hair tucked behind an archaic cardinal and navy baseball cap, reminiscent of the roaring 1920's. His shirt is of the same color, fluorescent and bright and all too sunny for the sarcastic kid standing on the disk. "Well, given that it's the fifth time you've wanted to speak to me in..." he looks at a clock somewhere in his digital world, where Roy could never venture into, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Thirty minutes. I'd say that makes you a candidate for loneliness."

Roy places a fist underneath his chin. "Did anyone ever tell you that sometimes people don't need your opinions?"

He shrugs. "It's in my programming, Mr. Arcadia. I can't change that."

The redhead goes to turn the disk off again, despite knowing in a good two minutes he'll be tempted to bring back the only person willing to speak with him. His hand hovers over the button, pausing to gander all available options. "I won't turn you off-"

"I was hoping you kind of would," Ness says, crossing his arms. "I'm just about to finish paving the road that leads to nowhere inside my city."

Roy eyes the AI Unit. "I don't understand how there can be an entire world placed into that disk that is separate from all the other units in Syrenet."

"Complicated stuff, Mr. Arcadia. There isn't any other word for it. I-"

"Hey, kid? Stop talking with your imaginary friend and get over here!" someone barks behind him, causing Roy to jump.

Ness rolls his eyes. "Go and see what that guy wants. Looks like he's the one with all the authority around here." He blips off, leaving Roy alone.

The redhead breathes deeply, getting off the ammo box. The stabbing feeling in his leg is strange and unwelcoming, alien to him as there's a tingling replacing the lack of blood. The person who called to him is standing about ten yards away or so, arms crossed, and looking quite impatient. Roy observes the man like an operative would've generally, and takes zero liking to him. The male's face is flushed, burning a sharp red. Beads of sweat trickle down his neck, a lining of sticky syrup coagulating his fingertips as if he had just finished a day of hard work. The man's beard was starting to poke through, oak stubble emerging from a pale chin. Roy's eyes perceive the man, and he senses sadness, tiredness, and in the soldier himself he can feel disappointment leeching off like wisps of smoke. He wants to say that he saw a man of dignity, a man with mahogany eyes that scream passion and love and boldness. What Roy sees back, it's not the truth that his dreams wanted to aspire, nor what he envisioned.

Roy reaches the gentleman, and is surprised to see he has a hand outstretched to shake the redhead's. He welcomes the greeting happily, shaking eagerly and earnestly. "Sir." he says.

The man nods, rubbing his chin. "You must be Roy Arcadia, right?"

"Yes sir." the redhead answers. Never again will he go a day without saying yes ma'am and yes sir to anyone of any importance around D.C or anywhere else after the mess up he ran into with Shulk back at headquarters.

"I'm Snake Karlo, the head director of the FBI."

Roy feels partly stupid at the fact he didn't recognize the man, save the fact that Snake's portrait is plastered just about everywhere in Langley. He smiles breathlessly, his palms starting to sweat. "It's an honor to meet you sir. I-"

"I know all about you," Snake interrupts him gently, raising a hand. "Best of your graduating class from the academy and could've been one of the finest agents we've ever had," the older man grimaces. "Cept' you gave it all away for an out of the blue opportunity handed down to you from the White House. I'll say it was just silly, Mr. Arcadia."

He frowns. _Silly? Why silly?_ Roy only smiles back again, unsure of how to proceed. "If it comes from Madam President herself, it's hard to ignore her wishes."

Snake nods his head at that. "That is something I can agree with."

The two stand awkwardly in the middle of the runway, as the sun starts to go down. Hazy lines of amaranthine and halcyon and sunburst orange race across the sky like hares all aiming to be the first person to reach the finish line. Snake scratches the back of his neck, and Roy catches sight of a scar lining the inside of his bicep, the FBI director wearing a simple solid color polo and slacks. Roy returns to biting on his lip. Stupid habit. "So... what did you call me over for?"

The FBI director blinks, as if he's been caught off guard, and he almost goes as red as Roy's hair. "Oh, sorry, Mr. Arcadia."

"Call me Roy, please." he admonishes. He does not deserve to be referred to so formally, least not by the head of one of the divisions in the Federal government when he all he ever will be for Syrenet is a lowly grunt doing the dirty work.

"Well, Roy, other operatives in Boston have told me that Link has put his name down on the reservation list for dinner at a local restaurant downtown."

"Oh? Where?" his interest is piqued, all to help the case go smoothly as if he knows what they're eating, it'll be simple for him to be even more comfortable.

"Italian. A Mama's Kitchen inspired type of place," Snake shrugs. "I don't know-" he catches a gleam in the boy's eyes. "What?"

"Italian food is my favorite out there," Roy grins. "Especially linguini."

"Okay. Just Italian?" Snake asks, unsure of what to do with all of this information. He checks his watch, seeing that he's very late. "This mission, I assume has been described to you already by Corrin and Shulk back in D.C?" Roy nods in assent. "Just the basics, I imagine, as this is all done to me to give you the specifics. You'll be spending three days in Boston with Link Collins. He's the most reliable source for firearms that Syrenet has in the whole country, and now we have suspicion to believe he's helping the enemy. There's a transaction in two days time from now, on Friday, and you need to be there and observing just exactly what goes on."

Roy frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Who will Link be greeting? Is it a rebel spy or one of our own? If it's one of us, then there's nothing to worry about. Link is totally harmless," the older man explains. "If it's anyone else than us... then you know he's doing shady things under the table at our expense, which cannot happen. And then that means you have to eliminate Link Collins to prevent him from causing any more damage."

The redhead whistles lowly. "That sounds kind of extreme, don't you think?"

"Madam Corrin will pay every expense there is and shed no matter how much blood in keeping this country safe," Snake's gaze is sharp, cold, and calculating. "Frankly, I'd do the same thing in your place. I'd put a bullet in the guy's head before there could be any more trouble and clean ship, but I don't run the rules around here."

"So what am I doing tonight?" Roy inquires.

"Having dinner with your new associate. All Link knows about you is that you're a hotshot from D.C willing and wanting to join his team of weapon makers. Becoming the right hand fellow, or something stupid like that. Besides that, Mr. Collins knows nothing about you, so you're able to tell him whatever you want. Including your name."

"That... that doesn't sound safe," he drops his voice, the alarm bells going off in his head. You were never supposed to share information that could compromise you, ever. And now he's getting free reign to tell a potential 'bad guy' whatever he wants? Suspicious. "I'm not sure..."

"If you want to give him a cover up story, then by all means do it," Snake says exasperated. "If you're bothered to think of one right now and have it check out on the way to dinner, be my guest. Unfortunately, to help you blend, you will not have the Syrenet suit with you. It'll be shipped by us later in the evening to an apartment just a few blocks from one of Link's plants, easy enough to access should there be something that needs you to get to a 'safe' place.

"Wait..." Roy frowns once more. "If I don't have my suit, then that means I also don't have Ness in my head helping me out either. I'll be blind, with no escape routes."

Snake holds up a finger, rummaging deep into his pocket. " _That_ we did think of," He pulls out a chip of some kind, nothing too fancy. "Use this." He hands it to Roy.

The redhead rubs his thumb over the strange device. It was a three by three malleable strip, about as thin as a Band-Aid width wise, nothing deeper than a quarter. His fingers gloss over the back, something sticky feeling around the base. "What is it?"

"A technological advancement developed by Pit Icarus himself. You've got the prototype," Snake puts his hands back into his pocket as he goes and explains over the piece of technology. "A tiny little piece of the Syrenet framework that connects you to Ness from your Syrenet suit and the metallic disk that you can't have with you. You press it once to turn it on, and you'll feel the skin warm up a bit. You turn it off, and the skin will cool. The back is sticky, making it adhesive to your skin. Painless to peel off, easy to stick. Place it somewhere on your body and if you need to have Ness alongside you to help, he'll be there in a second flat."

"That- that's kind of cool!" Roy's eyes brighten once more.

"I'll be in Boston for a week after the mission is over, doing one last check. If you ever need anything beforehand that Ness can't help you with and you need assistance from a higher up such as myself, then you contact me. I'll be leaving a business card with my number on it in the crate carrying your Syrenet suit," Snake remarks, closing Roy's fist around the device. "Any questions, Roy?"

Roy swallows the fear that he had no idea he had been holding, and nods. "No sir."

* * *

Link loves the noise of a busy, crowded restaurant. The weapons dealer smiles smugly at the passing waiters and waitresses, eyes lingering down one of the waitress's skirt. She makes a squeak, bustling away from him with lightning speed. He laughs heartily, tapping the cigarette in his left hand against the ashtray. He takes a drag, exhaling smoke out in a white plume. He knows that he can't smoke inside, but if he did it in the President of the United States office, then who's to tell him no while at a restaurant that he paid for.

The blonde leans back against the leather of the booth, sighing deeply. His flight was average and boring, the only excitement being a baby vomiting all over his expensive dress shoes, like three thousand dollar shoes. All the man could've done is smile sweetly when deep down he wanted to strangle the cute human till they were blue in the face. "I had to make fourteen different transactions to be able to pay for those shoes, and a baby who's only been alive for two months pukes on them as if that hard work was for naught," he snarks to himself, taking another puff on the cigarette. "Those who do not work will never understand just how hard people like me _do_ to get we have."

His gaze slyly swoops from the empty dinner table to the front door of the restaurant, as somebody was walking in. Link's eyes catch glimpse of a redhead, average height, and then he's sitting up, even more intently. The man and the hostess exchange a few words that Link cannot hear, and then she's leading him back to _his_ table and Link realizes, or more so comes to terms with that the guy in front of him is the new recruit.

"Mr. Collins, he's here." the hostess says simply, nodding. The guy behind her gives a half hearted wave as she retreats away back to the front where it is safe.

The two stare down at each other, their gazes narrowed, calculating every move, the nuances and behaviors. While Roy is looking to see if Link is truly threatening up close, the blonde is determining the redhead's worth. A moment of silence passes between them before Link breaks into a smile. "Well, color me purple and call me a plum," he expresses joy by standing up and shaking Roy's hand. "Pleased to meet ya, kid! It's Link, Link Collins!"

"Roy Arcadia, sir."

"Don't be so formal around me. If you want to be a part of Collins Industry, you're family!" Link throws his arms out wide, and Roy takes it as his cue to sit.

The redhead sits down at a chair which is across the table from Link, but he frowns and beckons that the man sit closer. Roy swallows and gets nearer, sitting in the booth. Link scoots over to make some room, while Roy directs himself to sit an angle where Link couldn't see the back of his neck. Link taps the cigarette out into the ashtray, clearing his throat.

"I must admit, your application seemed eager, son."

"Oh, yeah," Roy nods his head. "I just needed something to get into, and people back home mentioned stuff like arms dealing to me, so I thought why not."

"Where ya from?" Link's eyes gleam, looking for weaknesses.

Roy's prepared, _perhaps_ too prepared if there is such a thing. "Back in D.C. I was- I was in the academy about to be reinstated to the FBI."

"Yeah, yeah!" the arms dealer claps his hands excitedly. "Your file mentioned that, right? Top of the academy's graduating class? Sounds like I've got myself a keeper," Link smiles, and the redhead's skin begins to crawl as if he's being attacked by a rabid army of fleas. "Man, what would've happened to you at the FBI to want to go and work for someone like me? I don't have the best... reputation in Washington, you know."

He shrugs. "People deserve second chances."

"Well then that means I'm on my millionth chance," Link jokes, now wishing he didn't put out his cigarette. He hails down a waitress, a cute girl with two pigtails, and he has half the mind to snicker and call her a child though she looks like she's in her thirties. "I'm gonna order," he says, and then looks at Roy. "You hungry?"

"I'm starving," Roy answers earnestly, and Link notices that he goes to scratch his neck feverishly and fervently. "The bags of peanuts were only a snack."

"I'm gonna start a drink tab," Link tells the waitress. "Get me a Bud's Light and a Blue Moon for him."

"Food?" she asks, writing down the order of alcohol.

"Shrimp Scampi." He replies, unraveling his silverware.

"And for you, sir?" the waitress turns to Roy.

"Any pasta specials?" the redhead leans forward just a little, but not too far forward where Link can see the device from Snake stuck to the back of his neck. The device is glowing yellow, and Roy hears Ness's voice in his head.

" _Order what you want, just like Snake said,"_ Ness instructs. " _He's not going to know otherwise anything about you._ "

"Pick your pasta, and add meat for two fifty," she recites, to answer Roy's question. "On Sundays we do half-off for pasta dishes. Today, there's nothing."

Roy pats the table. "I'll take an order of linguini," he orders. "It's my favorite."

The two men lock eye contact, and Link jumps in his seat some. " _Linguini?_ " he thinks. Link turns his grim frown into a twisted smile. "Interesting choice."

"I'll put that right in for you. Holler if you need anything." the waitress says, putting the notepad back into her apron, bustling away from the table and into the kitchen. Roy sighs and scratches his neck again, turning off Ness's input.

Link eyes the other man's hand. "What's wrong with your neck, son?"

"Nothing. Just a nasty scab." the redhead lies through his teeth, though if comes out as if rehearsed.

The blonde eyes Roy once, before sitting up. "Well, given that I eat here normally every time I come to Boston, I know how slow their kitchen is. It'll be an entire hour before our food comes, so I think this is the perfect time to get to know you," Link says, then he holds his hands up innocently. "If that's alright with you, I mean. I like to know all I can about whom I may be working with, and asking for hired muscle to do dirty work isn't as easy as it may sound, kid."

The two begin discussing their lives, and every so often, Link sees Roy touch the back of his neck, but it is almost done so quickly he wouldn't have caught it in the first place. During their conversations, dinner comes, and Roy gobbles it down so fast that it almost appeared as if it never had been ordered. Often times Link would ask pretty difficult questions that would trip up people if they weren't prepared for an 'interview', but Link is doing it simply to test the waters.

" _Whatever your game your playing, Madam Corrin,"_ he thinks darkly. " _Just know I'm playing every step of the way with my own, too. Game on._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we are you guys, Chapter #5: The Boston Target. I know that this chapter may not feel as lively and a little bit subdued more than usual, but I hope it's still as enjoyable as ever. Looks like Roy's Boston operation is in motion, and who knows what's in store. Let's take a poll! Who thinks that Link is guilty for selling weapons to the rebels? Who thinks that he's innocent? Only time will tell, and I'll be dropping subtle hints as to what as we go along the story. I hope to see you all again for Chapter #6: Lucid Operations. You all have a wonderful day, and thanks for being amazing readers and people. Love you all! Bye!
> 
> ~ Paradigm


	6. Lucid Operations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy panics, Link pleads, and Marth copes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, #6: Lucid Operations. Boy oh boy, hasn't it been awhile ladies and gentlemen? I believe it has. Enjoy Chapter #6: Lucid Operations.

* * *

The camera bursts on with a roar of static, frizzling, jagged lines of black and white dashing out like pellets of rain skyrocketing down a window during a thunderstorm on a car going a hundred miles an hour down the freeway. Background noise of shuffling is heard on the video, however the noise comes from off camera, the camera positioned on the carpeted floor of an apartment that has several charcoal stains painting a flower with a grotesque bleakness. The sound of a knife can be heard off camera as well, like someone cutting up carrots or possibly fingers if that was the effect the video was going for.

A face appears a few moments later in the grim murkiness of the film, Roy Arcadia's haggard face showing the signs of wear and tear from the dinner with Link Collins. A napkin with a few diced up carrots sits in his palm, crumpled up like his own hopes and dreams after having the scariest night of his life. He pops one into his mouth and chews on it like a gummy marshmallow, letting it sit and break up by saliva. Roy's red hair is darker than usual on the film, and in the shadows of his apartment, Roy feels alone.

He positions the camera some more again, then waves with the hand not holding the napkin, swallowing the carrot down his throat. Roy cracks his knuckles once, then again, and one more time just to make sure they were properly destroyed as the sound of released air gives him euphoria and chills up and down his spine. A breath is drawn outward as he stares blank faced at the camera, unsure of what to say, and the breath is so long and spacious that it feels like a recursive disease splinting open his ribcage with rust particles and bits of bone flaying everywhere.

His Adam's apple in his throat resembles that of a rock when he swallows, grainy, coarse, and hurting.

Roy coughs up a carrot onto the carpet, disgusted at the mauled up bit of veggie, orange strands splintered out like bits of tweed. Pressing a hand against the back of his neck to rip off the sticker device that let Ness sit in his head the entire night, he is ready to begin after such drastic preparations. He drops the piece of tape and lets it fall to the floor. Whatever help the device gave him, it is piss poor and he has a few choice words to give to Snake the next time he sees him.

 _If_ he ever sees him again, more likely.

"This is documentation one of the Boston Target, agent Roy Arcadia of Alpha Unit, under the charge of Shulk Roberts, and on this mission, FBI director Snake Karlo," he states to the camera as official registration of his title and purpose for the video, required by the documentation of the mission. "I do not know how many videos of these I have to make, but since I'm scared to all hell for my life and may die at any moment, let this be augmentative evidence against any presumable case towards arms dealer Link Collins."

A scratch in his throat turns to another cough, and he turns away to let the tremor in his chest pass. His hair flips around like a flaming tornado, resting against the nape of his neck. Roy wipes at his mouth, returning to the camera when the storm in his chest cavity passes. "Tonight, I just had dinner with the famed Link Collins. My mission is to spy on him and see whether or not he's supplying the rebel forces of the Midwest with weapons to dismantle the young Syrenet project. I am in Boston as his new right hand man, but only to dish any dirt that I find," he explains.

"I've never been so scared of someone in my entire life," Roy admits, and a blush settles there on his cheek. He feels like a king without a horse to ride on or a sword to swing. Roy Arcadia has been given an automatic lifeline to Snake's phone, Ness as a backup resource for confidence and relaying of messages, and even a suit decked out like armor to protect him, yet he's never felt more alone than as he does now, sitting in the cramped and damp apartment. The carpet smells of a dying rat, the curtains are riddled with bullet holes, and the pillars of moonlight do not have resting places against the chipped, greyscale walls. The bed is covered in a thin layer of dust, that when he blew off the sand, it piled up into a little dune at the foot of the headrest. Looks like Roy's going back to sleeping on the floor. Just like his college years. "Link Collins knows how to drill through you like you're on some stupid game show," he shakes his head. "I'm unsure whether or not to be ashamed or just accept that I probably screwed up. I kept touching my neck at dinner to turn my AI Unit, Ness, on and off. I hadn't thought of another place to put it, like a damn idiot."

Roy rubs his face, getting up and getting a drink of water. Luckily for him, Snake had thought of everything in advance food and drink wise, giving him countless packages of water bottles, and then cans of soda upon cans of soda, _and_ in case he needed to drown his sorrows in a ruby red liquid: twelve bottles of Merlot, never opened, and fresh from the vineyard. His hand lingers on the wine bottle for a moment, then he abandons the notion. All Link needs is a drunk Roy Arcadia to spill every secret known to man about Syrenet and then he ends up dead by sunrise, a knife in his throat, pinned to the harbor overlooking the northern Atlantic. He places himself back down in front of the camera.

"He also got weird with me for a few minutes after I ordered linguini pasta, saying it had been my favorite. He got all... quiet," Roy says, then frowns. "We were having Italian," he adds, knowing it'd help settle the mood. "I am unsure whether or not he had found something else about me that bothers him, or he just has a horrible relationship with that pasta. Either way, it has me on edge. An edge I'm unsure I appreciate."

A creak comes from down the hall, and Roy's gaze snaps to it, hand going to his waist side where he had placed a pistol for safekeeping. There is another one located in the bathroom atop the shower head, another gun under his pillow, and then as a last measure, a knife atop the refrigerator. He needs to be as safe as possible, and though that means his attackers could use his very weapons against him, which would be ironic in that of itself. He can picture the headlines now. _Man dead by the very weapons sworn to protect him. No one ever really cared._ Roy's breathing is shallow, and riddled in it is the emotion of fear, like curled, bony witch fingers over an unsuspecting lad's face. The creaking starts to dwindle down the hall, and he looks at the lock on the door, seeing it is indeed shut and no one could enter without a bough of brute force. Roy wants it to stay that way.

"Sorry," he apologizes, face burning the same color as his hair. "I'm just a little jumpy. Being a Syrenet agent now means I have to be suspicious of everyone and everything against me. Someone may like our president and the country, but the moment you switch to Syrenet, those very same people may want to kill you. Not a fun experience, as you can imagine. As I was saying..." Roy shifts somewhat on the carpet, his left foot falling asleep. He shakes it around and accidentally whacks himself in the face, like being bludgeoned by a club. "There's something fishy about Link Collins. He's acted like a cat running scared, and men who are not guilty of anything can walk free. No man who is not guilty acts like he has something to hide. Guilty men have something to hide, and Link Collins is hiding something. He's guilty of something, I'm sure of it..." he chews on the inside of his cheek. "Although, it very well may be an expired parking ticket, as a man can be trivialized for a crime any day in this country it seems."

On the drive home from the restaurant, Link does not shut up about his adventures. The blonde arms dealer tells the redhead that for the longest time, he had been the most silent boy you'd ever meet, one that simply nodded his head and is respectful to all those who came near him, though Link did not receive the same courtesy. When he came of age, or in college for his simplistic terms, he beat up or killed everyone in his past who wronged him, but it is never _his_ hand that dealt the final blow. Link is sure to mention that to Roy. He stands over his opponents, wanting to be called Master of Time, as he swore to those he hated that he'd appear again to them in the shadows of the night as a weeping angel of destruction, whose eyes held no mercy.

Roy's still unsure of how to respond to getting told that, and from the looks of everything, the cab driver is just as perplexed and horrified. He scratches the back of his neck again, the sticky adhesive responding like a fly in a glue trap. "That Link Collins, I tell you, he's insane. Insane as a dog who's tried Mad Hatter, and not the good stuff. He never shuts up, either. I don't need to know about his mistresses and men that he's screwed, most definitely," he grimaces. "But who am I kidding, right? Me talking about him like this behind his back isn't going to make my job any easier come tomorrow."

He takes a breath. This is the part he's afraid of reaching, the one he's afraid of telling. Nothing can be kept secret from this camera, as Roy has an innate feeling deep down that all must be shared or otherwise the truth isn't truly known. Link reveals to him in the cab ride one of his favorite blades, as if a man is supposed to have a favorite weapon like one would a nickname, color, or ice cream flavor. Apparently, as the blonde puts it, if someone does not have a favorite weapon, they are lesser than a man. All men need to get their hands dirty in some way, shape, or form. He nicks Roy in the neck with it slightly, giving one last friendly threat that if Roy Arcadia is not the man he believes him to be, then there'll be a red sun rising in the Boston skyline the morning after. Roy swallows at the threat, but still kindly thanks Link when getting out of the cab and running inside, shaking and wishing to cry the whole time.

"He's bringing me to the compound tomorrow, his largest factory located right here in Boston. Home base," Roy says. "He's going to show me what the Collins name does for business and I've got no way to prepare for what I'm about to do. At the very least, it'll be cold tomorrow so I've got a place to put Ness underneath my wrist where my thump can access it if need be. I'm terrified, whoever will be seeing this..." he leans into the camera, gripping it.

The words want to come out, but they're not giving him the satisfaction of making it so easy. Up close, in the camera, you can see the wound inflicted on his neck, the scar, the matted facial hair around it, the drying blood. Roy swallows the rock that is his Adam's apple, the fear apparent in his eyes, though in front of Link he must remain strong, and strong he'll remain.

"I cannot wait for this to be over," he admits breathlessly. "If a new Syrenet employee gets this someday after I'm long dead, never accept the request to go on a mission so soon into your introductory seminary, it'll be the death of you. I'm already dead, before I even arrived in Boston."

He drops the camera to the ground, pressing the off button.

Roy stops halfway into his bedroom, one foot over the threshold of the bedroom, the other stuck in the living room, pausing. What is the feeling in his throat? His hands immediately seize said body part, and he coughs. Something is lodged deep down, an object stuck. Roy's choking, and then he kicks out, falling to the tiled floor. Something shatters, and he yelps a horrible scream. He cannot get whatever is stuck in his throat out, and sooner than later, he can feel the darkness consuming him.

Black ants bore into his skull before he passes out.

* * *

Link Collins drums his fingers against the desk, one hand hovering over his computer mouse pad, left hand middle finger twitching inexplicably. His eyes begin to follow the same regiment, and it's an unbearable coping mechanism of his stress. He bites down on his tongue, drawing the sourness and coppery taste of blood forth, swallowing it down with relish. It almost tasted as half good as the chicken alfredo he had ordered. Roy's eyes flash behind his own, and for a split second, a feeling of incorrigible rage passes over him. It is gone as soon as it arrives, and he's unsure of how to address it.

By the back door to his room, there is some padding on the carpet, extra weight that he can sense imbued in his fingertips. Link locks his jaw, tousled blonde hair messy from rolling around in his covers, plagued by an insomniac attack. "Yes? What is it?" he barks.

The padding shifts some more and before him walks a person, one he certainly did not give permission to come and see him. It's nothing more than of his simple guardsmen, as Link likes to refer to them as. The boy is decked all in red, and the arms dealer is once again reminded of Roy Arcadia, the twisting of his hand into a fist. Link decides to give the boy in front of him a name, and because of what he's wearing, he's now Red. There. Simple and easy.

Red's hair line is covered in a cold sweat, one Link wishes to understand the reasoning of, which he perhaps will find out soon enough. "Mr. Collins, there's been a problem-"

"Problem?" Link's train of thought comes to a screeching halt. Problem is not one of his favorite words, not be a longshot. His eyes turn an icy blue. "What sort of problem?"

"The plant..." Red is unable to get the words out.

"If you can't speak on your own volition, perhaps I'll have someone else tell me it, unless you're not as impudent as you look," he snaps. "What. Is. It?"

"The plant in Portland was just bombed, Mr. Collins," the poor boy yelps, frightened. "By rebels and a stolen shipment from the Oklahoma City plant, too."

Link jolts to his feet, slapping Red across the face. The boy crumples to the floor, and the blonde stands over him with seething rage. "Do you think I wanted to know that? That was something that just _had_ to be shared, boy? Get out of my room! Now! Why can't you be sensible like everyone else on this compound and tell me in the morning like a normal person!" he grabs Red by the shirt collar, pulling him close. "Portland is four hours behind us right now. It's nearly three in the morning and you're invading my personal, private time. Go!"

He lets Red go, the boy's face gone as pale as a sheet. Red scampers off, tail between his legs, muttering apologies of all kind. Link slinks back into his chair, defeated. He rubs a hand over his face, pulling his eyelids down. In the wake of his slap, Link's computer had turned off and he gets a glimpse of his reflection. Barbaric, cruel, and downright nasty. He hates what stares back at him. The fire in his eyes pools around him, and that's enough for him to press the Skype chat button on the computer screen after turning it on.

The blonde chews on the cuticles of his fingers while he waits for her to respond. In a flash, it happens, and Link has never felt better. The face of president Corrin Etch appears on his computer screen, though while he may be happy to see her, she isn't happy to see him.

"What?" Corrin snaps. "Any idea how late it is and you're deciding to call me? You nearly woke half the White House."

Despite his situation, Link cannot help but smile at the same old Corrin, the same old blizzard lady he remembers from his youth with daring escapades of teeth, sunshine, blankets and babies. "I need you to help cheer my mood," he says, leaning forward. "Besides, I'm bored."

The president sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Are you kidding me? Link, I am not someone you can just ring up whenever you need me! I'm president of this country and-"

"Because of it I have all these responsibilities and blah, blah, blah, blah," Link waves a hand at the computer screen nonchalantly. "Do not bore me with what you have to do for a nation that you know does not truly love you. I'm just sitting here, having a pleasant time with my thoughts and this worker of mine tells me that Portland has just been raided."

Corrin's eyes widen at the news. "The entire city?" her face goes white. That's a national emergency. How- Link can picture the thoughts running through the president's head. _Why hasn't someone woken me up? What am I going to do? Oh god, oh god, ohgodohgodohgodohgod..._

"Not the whole city," he corrects her. "My plant. Attacked by rebels and blown up by my very same weapons. I can't ever get a day of peace with this damn job. I'm pulled in so many directions that I should be crowned mom of the year, Corrin, and I don't even have breasts!" Link throws his hands up at the mentioning of the female body part, Corrin sighing once more in exasperation.

"You really need to get a better hold of your merchandise," she says.

"That's it?" Link looks at her with a contemptuous gaze. "For me to tighten the yoke on my establishments? How about some help, Madame President? Send Syrenet to help my workers! It's my plants and compounds after all that give you the weapons to supply your little robotic force of peacemakers," he snarks. "Besides, I know you. You cannot stand to lose valuable customers."

She looks lost, throwing a hand up like his but more so out of confusion. "I can't do anything for you right now, Link. Syrenet is all either scattered around the country or back here in D.C, asleep. We don't have teleportation abilities, and if I did, then I still wouldn't use it for the likes of you! The nearest unit is the Ichor squad in Bismarck, North Dakota, trying to build up a branch there. After that, I have the Winter squad in Phoenix doing a hunting job for a cartel boss. You're on your own for now."

"Send the men in D.C for me," Link says, though his voice is rougher and it feels like an order than a gentle request.

Corrin's eyes are impossibly sad. "There's only five or six real Syrenet warriors here in D.C. Shulk Roberts, Ike Forgenson, Marth Lowell, who's still recovering, Pit Icarus... not a band of twenty or thirty who can turn back a rebellion."

"Send them anyways..." His voice does not waver.

"You care about no one else other than yourself, do you?" she chides, shaking her head in dissent, white hair tuckered into a ponytail. "That we're all here to help you, when in reality you help me. Does that somehow make sense in your twisted brain?"

Link looks away, then goes back to Corrin after being silent for a mere moment. "It is clear that you are not going to help me. I am just as powerless as you are in this situation, Madame President, in that chair in the Oval Office. I care about those who work for me like brothers and sisters, though I sure as hell don't treat them good. Get some rest, then. I- I'm sorry for disturbing you."

Corrin opens her mouth to rebuttal, but by that point, Link pulls out a gun from the drawer and shoots at the monitor till it goes black.

In his head, the echoes of firebomb explosions and the cry of death radiates in his ears.

He runs a hand through his hair, before crumbling onto the desk in a wail of tears.

No help comes for the lonely Link Collins that night, or any other night afterwards, it may seem.

* * *

At night, Syrenet headquarters are quiet, too quiet for Marth Lowell's liking, but he learns to deal with it on days such as this where there's only five or six people working, the others across America or at home resting for the brink of a war that'll never come. Marth is sitting in the lobby of headquarters, alone at a table surrounded by plastic and metal chairs. The remnants of dinner are still stuck to the outer rim, spaghetti sauce and globules of Pit's vomit from him getting sick at the smell of fried octopi. Shulk is an excellent chef, which Marth reminded the blonde as he eat octopi doused in marinara and a penne pasta drenched in a creamy basil coating.

Underneath a dimly lit lamp, his eyes cast avert shadows over the pages of his book, a detailed story of a man who dresses up like a woman to gain the favor of his queen's court as an admiral in the diplomacy sector, before the queen divorces her husband in newfound love for the man, who then breaks it to her that the she is actually a he and the queen still falls in love with him despite that. He is sick and tired of the droll pages that detail slovenly built huts and a running river by one of the eastside towns of the kingdom the book takes place in, trying to understand it's relevancy to the plot. His blue hair is a cap of electric raspberries shielding him from gnats and flies that are buzzing around the light bulb.

Everyone else is asleep down on the lower floors somewhere, and he knows that Ike, Pit, and Shulk with their respective AI units are snoring their heads off in cozy little cots while Marth's mind plagues him with injuries from Oklahoma, as he can never sleep anymore because of that day. He needs a good book to calm him down, but since the library was all the way on the ninth floor of headquarters, Marth is too lazy to slug up the steps with a blanket in the lucid darkness for a book that he wouldn't be able to read the book spine due to the black. The leader of Beta Squad picks the book off of the floor near Shulk's bedside, trudged into the elevator, and up he went. That is at around midnight after everyone said good night, and now it was nearing four in the morning, a very hazy peal of sunshine poking over the bleak and opaque horizon. Marth wonders where the track of time went, but decides to not dwell on it. After all, his mind is already suffering at the hands of this godawful book.

The sound of an elevator door opening hits his ears and he's immediately on alert. Marth tenses somewhat, trying to act a little bit more relaxed in his manner by propping one leg up on the table, the book obscuring his vision from the elevator doors. It pings with a gentle music note that causes Marth's heart to flutter, but his eyes stay focused on the blending lines of black ink and white pages.

Heavy footfall clomps down the tile floor over to him, and a familiar wave of cobalt hair pokes over the top of his book. Marth looks up to see the arms crossed figure of Ike Forgenson, and the man isn't necessarily angry as he is annoyed.

"Please tell me you're not doing what I think you're doing," Ike says, arms still folded, expression stoic. His cobalt hair is messy, like a tsunami wave throwing poor sea creatures onto a dilapidated beach.

"Reading," Marth answers calmly, flipping to the next page, his thumb running all the way up to the top of the page and sliding off, the commander half expecting a paper cut. He is sorely disappointed when nothing happens and all he's given is a slight sting of the cold air. "I'm told it is very relaxing for the soul and the mind. Perhaps you should pick up a book every once in awhile and enlighten yourself to what you may find in them." he flits his eyes over at his best friend, demanding a response.

"You should be asleep, Marth," the other blue haired man nibbles on his lower lip.

"Same can be said to you. Don't be a hypocrite."

"I'd figure you'd say that," Ike runs a hand through his hair, ceasing the lip biting. The two men sit in a lulled period of silence, save for the buzzing of flies and gnats and moths in the halcyon daze above, the tiled floor is silent. The bulkier of the two begins to tap his foot, most definitely trying to get Marth's attention, the echo of a socked foot reverberating along the walls like a gunshot without the severity of death. "You're very predictable," he comments, continuing the bombardment of heel to tile grit. This continues for about a minute until Marth's hands begin to twitch in frustration, perhaps to curve around Ike's bulging neck.

Marth slams the book down onto the table, spine first so the clap is thunderous, eyes ablaze. "Ike! Would you mind?"

"Not unless you go back to bed," Ike begrudges.

"Not on your life," Marth mutters.

"Why are you awake?"

"What do you think?"

"Can't sleep?"

"No. I can't," Marth groans, running a hand across the back of his neck. "I've been up since we all said goodnight. At first it was just a way for me to be able to shut my eyes, and then it turned into where I now am engrossed in this absolutely deplorable novel."

Ike pulls the second chair from the table out and sits across from his best friend. "Well, what's been bothering you?"

His friend looks over at him with a look that is as dark and icy as the coldest winds of Alaska, tongue tisking in all the right places, head dipped down just enough where he looks disappointed. "Ike..." he chides. Now is not the time.

"Oklahoma City?" Ike guesses out of his ass, but truthfully there was only like one another answer it could've been presumably been and he never likes being wrong.

Marth nods solemnly, and he feels like there's a million insects crawling all over his skin, biting him, making him swear against the holy book, his family, and so much more. He closes his eyes, pressing his fingers on his eyelids. It's with this movement that Marth realizes that he's shaking, all due to someone mentioning a place. It isn't as if Oklahoma City has stood up and walked directly into the Syrenet dining room! Marth opens his eyes, body still shaking slightly. "Just... just that entire day replaying over and over again. I nearly lost my leg because of a grenade. Had we just been that much more observant and patient, we wouldn't be some of the only ones left alive from that ordeal!" he's shouting now, the commander having flung himself away from the table, hands curled up into fists.

Ike looks down at the floor. "It isn't your fault for what happened. And you know that Corrin isn't going to send you back there again, she's a smart woman. We failed there and we have to move on."

"But who isn't to say that there'll be another one like that in another city we go to!" Marth cries, gesturing his hands wide as if they were to encapsulate the whole nation from sea to shining sea. "There may be an attack in Boise, or Orlando, or Atlanta from rebels against Syrenet and we're not there to go and save our comrades! Or, better yet, we're there and we're under fire..." his voice gets soft to a level he never even knew what was accessible before, almost sobbing at the breaking of his words. "I'm afraid of dying out there, Ike, and nothing we'll do will ever change that."

His best friend gets up, and Marth immediately backs up, afraid of being hit. Ike Forgenson compared to Marth Lowell is quite the size difference from muscles to simple draw of his arm to punch someone. Although he isn't afraid of his best friend, he cannot help but feel partially threatened. Ike gets in close to Marth and hugs him tight. No words, no gestures other than his arms wrapping around Marth in a bear hug. Marth is caught off guard, but hugs back.

When they break apart, Marth can see an entire history in Ike's reflective eyes, emotion that he's never read before, and though he knows it isn't one of love as a boyfriend or husband or anything of the sort; it is one of family and siblinghood. A rose, a tar ocean, a casket of gold, a bouquet of violet petals, a hailstone, a curl of blonde hair, and a rusted nail all flash between the two men and Marth seems to pull all of those things together into one agglomeration that he can't spell other than a timeline of Ike's life that he'll never share through common tongue, but passing gazes.

They stand still for a few more moments, Ike then clasping Marth on the shoulder. Like old times sake. "Come on, you got to go back to bed. Corrin is actually going to be requesting you for some decisions on how to handle a possible operation in Sacramento," Marth begins to babble again about the inconsistencies and failures and blood, but Ike puts a firm finger against his best friend's lips to keep him quiet, noticing how cold Marth's skin actually is, perhaps from a constant fear of something that he cannot understand. "She is not sending you out into the field for something like that unless it is absolutely necessary. You're still one of the best damn fighters we've got, Marth, whether you like it or not and lord knows I'm not letting you incapacitate yourself further because of that. I need someone to talk to after all, and Shulk or Pit being by my side twenty-four seven is not ideal."

Marth snickers, and Ike slugs an arm over his back as they walk towards the elevator together, joking. The compound is quiet once more, and Marth looks back at the table and the book, realizing he left the light on. Eh, he'll get it later in the day. The two ride down back to their floor together, silent save for some chitchat about the weather, which is always a great one to start up again.

Ike lets Marth out first before typing in a numbered code that kept the elevator locked till the morning in case of unwanted visitors who couldn't touch the heart of Syrenet. They both step into the room where Roy was once waiting several days ago, and they freeze. The temperature conniption still has yet to be fixed. Marth cranes his neck somewhat, swearing he hears the sound of broken glass, someone screaming in terror, someone else screaming in anger.

"Do you hear that?" Marth asks Ike.

The cobalt haired man nods back, patting around his waistband. "Dammit," he swears. "Left my gun inside, by my bed. Looks like we may have to use our fists."

Then, an ear piercing scream breaks the façade, and it makes Marth's blood run cold. _Shulk._ "Shulk!" the commander of Beta Squad cries, lunging for the door. He pulls on the knob, falling back as his hands fall from it, his own now slick with a coppery substance. Blood. "It's locked!"

That doesn't scare Ike, and he barges forward, slamming all of his body weight against the door. It falls in two quick bombardments, and then the two men scramble into the room.

Their bedroom isn't much in a state of awry matters except for the center. Pit is trembling over by the corner, a deep gash on his elbow and one across his face from his right ear down to the jaw. Over by him were several over turned AI Unit disks, Lucas's actually turned on, the blonde crying and muttering insensible things, and next to that, a shattered vase. Marth and Ike then notice the hunched over figure in the center of the room, radiant blonde hair as bright as the sun.

"Shulk?" Marth timidly says his superior's name, opening he'd look up.

Shulk does just that, and Ike takes a step back, perturbed. The commander of Syrenet's operation's eyes are wide, his blonde hair a mess, and his hands trembling. He's covered in blood, down to the crimson stained pajama pants to his hands which have no resemblance of any pale skin whatsoever. Marth can only stare on in horror, a hand going up to his mouth.

So much blood. There's so much blood and Ike isn't sure who it even belongs to, as Shulk doesn't appear to be injured and Pit's the only one sleeping with them, and it surely cannot be all his blood. Surely, right? Ike is not so sure anymore.

Shulk takes one step forward, wavering.

"He- help me..." he croaks, before his eyes roll into the back of his head, the commander dropping like a sack of rocks to the tiled floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we are ladies and gentlemen! That was Chapter #6: Lucid Operations, of Syrenet, and that very well might be the best chapter I've ever written for this story, and perhaps even overall if I can be so bold. What do you think happened to Roy? I can't give you specifics or details of any kind that might spoil some stuff, but things aren't good. How about Link and Corrin's conversations? Is there something going on that you all don't know about yet... or what? With Ike's lines of history in his eyes, what do you think that's about? Things to come or things that have already happened? AND, of course, perhaps the worst thing of all, what is going on with our man Shulk? See you for the next chapter, Chapter #7: Foraging Harvest.


	7. Foraging Harvest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy has an encounter with the devil, and Shulk recalls a night from before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, #7: Foraging Harvest. Last one surely had its ups and downs, with characters collapsing and whatnot. I want to say thank you to those who struggled through it as our adventure shall only get more calamitous from here on out. I think that there'll be more chapters in the 4k range than the 6k range, but I'll most certainly try. Enjoy Chapter #7: Foraging Harvest.

* * *

The wine sits groggily in Roy's belly from the dinner the night before as his worn out sneakers touch the asphalt soil of the Collins compound in Boston, about twenty minutes out from the city. A ray of sunshine hits his head and he downs himself to one knee, growling into the gravel. The pain festers in his stomach once more, daring to lurch and vomit outward. Last night is a fractured blur to him, as all the redhead remembers is heaving up his dinner on the floor of his already disgusting apartment and going unconscious, waking up to a smiling blonde face that he does not recognize, and then vanishing into the transpires of shadow as if nothing had happened.

His phone buzzes off like a madman from Link's incessant calls - demands, rather, since Link Collins does not appear to be a rational man - to appear at the factory by 10 AM sharp, no later than the hour, and no earlier. When Roy comes to, he's sitting a pool of blood which had to have come from his mouth with the remnants of last night's dinner pooled about him, stinking of alfredo and mushrooms that turns his nose up. There were no signs of other bodily harm or injury, actually Roy felt quite alright and everything functioned. Except for the blood on the tiled floor, of course.

Roy shakily dresses himself, taping another log describing the strange events of the hours beforehand, says goodbye to Ness who smarmily replies that he hopes Link doesn't completely cleave him in two, which to the Syrenet operative said several colorful expletives and flipped a few obscene gestures to make his point. He hails a taxi from his hotel room, pays the driver handsomely, and says that he'll find a different form of transportation on the way back. He needs to start a pay roll service for that taxi driver, Roy deduces as he watches the blazing cardinal headlights vanish in a peal of smoke and the crap from the road.

Snake is texting him too, as he gained intel during the night that Link Collins plans to meet with an executive who wishes to talk about business, nothing more, nothing less, but in context, for Link Collins, business could mean a good multitude of things that the FBI boss does not simply want to mull over at this time. He says that Corrin requires his attention the entire day on important D.C matters via a Skype call and constant emails which means that Roy's only true ally in the northern front of Massachusetts is abandoning him. Roy, as he shakily walks past the gated entrance to the weapons facility, sticks a new tapped adhesive that lets him talk to his AI Unit on the underside of his wrist, subconsciously pulling down the sleeves of his sweater. A cold, drafty chill blows through the vicinity, and Roy Arcadia from Alpha Squad of Syrenet most desperately misses Washington.

The iron wrung gates of the compound are stark and black like the hearts of the men who open them, which Roy notices as he walks by, do not smile nor do they repeat his greeting of good morning. Roy's feeling less welcomed by the very minute second, and this time he doesn't get Shulk's snappy repertoire to help be his backup. A few smokestacks billow gray plumage and waste into the somewhat azure sky like volcanoes spreading their death of ash and pyroclastic material from an eruption akin to the one covering Pompeii.

Roy wonders about his friends, if he can even call them such a word, in D.C, on how they're doing, how they're holding up without him. " _Probably just fine,"_ he snarks to himself, feeling quite pitied. A man can only be as good as the words he says, his father once told him at dinner when his parents argued over which potato went with which pasta. The redhead dreams of a time when those days were not filled with him running out of the house and finding his brooklet to cry in, simply because he did not understand why his parents fought so viciously over food choices. It is not till he is much older, years later, that the realization sits in where, if he replaced potatoes will how much money his parents earned, and pasta to bills, that his parents fought so spitefully and vilely over bills and the economic foundation of the Arcadia family. It's no surprise to any of Roy's family members that his parents split when he was only nine or so, little under a year when his mom found a job that actually suited her.

He feels tears streaming down his cheeks as he's stopped on the cobblestone path from the gate to the main building in the compound. Roy bats away at them like a gardener protecting his crops from locusts which only cause him to cry harder. He's not going to be able to stem the emotion. Despite his horrific tendencies at being unable to not keep his feelings out of sight, it was his ability in battle, and with a tongue, and with a gun that got Roy Arcadia where he was today, and it is something his family has never let him forget. Painful bruises at one point used to linger around Roy's ankles from tripping and falling in the morning due to the academy's constant runs - runs that Roy could never finish as his stamina never came from tiring out the muscles in his legs, but those in his arms. Fist fighting especially.

The redhead hears a sharp whistle, as Roy's been standing in the middle of God's nowhere on the cobblestone path. He looks up, hand frozen at swiping another tear away to see Link Collins, trouped by at least six other men, jollily prancing towards him. Roy cannot believe his eyes, as the blonde arms dealer is _literally_ prancing to him, a skip on a stone there, a wide outstretch of his hands here to welcome the redhead.

"I hope it isn't too dreary," Link comments, stopping at Roy's side, smiling. "I asked the janitors to repaint the welding chambers and the florists to buy new flowers, but there wasn't enough money in our budget to afford such a... 'project'," the blonde puts air quotes around the word project, causing Roy to raise an eyebrow at the sincerity of the man's words. "Nevertheless, I still am the owner of Collins Enterprise and these grounds are much better than any company overseas."

He turns and beckons with a finger to signal that Roy should follow. The redhead hastens his step. Roy bites his lip. He must tell Link of what happened yesterday. Either the Syrenet soldier had contact with food poisoning or a virus, or something much more serious, an actual attempt of being poisoned. He cannot possibly think of who else besides Shulk, Snake, Corrin and the other Syrenet operatives that would know of the mission, nor what one would gain by poisoning some random affiliate of Link Collins. "Link, there's something I should tell you-"

Link steps through the doors of one of the open aired spaces where the guns are made, his hands lacing the mirrors on the doors. He juts his jaw out to the right, eyes glimmering. "Yes?"

Roy suddenly doesn't know how to speak, breath stuttering and lips feeling dryer than usual. "Last night... I- I was watching TV and when I went to go to bed, something caused me to fall unconscious and vomit up blood. I awoke feeling just fine, but whatever happened to me I cannot explain. Anything unusual happen to you?"

The blonde looks at the other men gathered, his lackeys or something such or other and breaks into a laughter. _Laughter._ Roy's eyes flare up as Link places his hands on his knees, howling out to the wind and soon the others chuckle as well. "I was wondering when that would happen. I expected it to happen in the van ride while you were going home with me, but I must've given you a smaller dose than I originally thought."

The redhead takes a step back, hands searching around his waist for a weapon when he realizes that he left everything in the hotel room. He's a downright bloody idiot. Roy looks at Link nonplussed, eyebrows knit together. "What?" There's no other word in the dictionary to explain his confusion.

Link looks around as if someone's done some vile crime, like murder, before scoffing. "If you think I trusted you, Mr. Arcadia, no questions asked, then you're much more of an idiot than I thought. I simply had a chef on my payroll in the restaurant's kitchen give you three drops of a poison into your linguini pasta dish before our waitress brought it out. There's a reason why I only have my dinners there, Roy, in essence to hide my assets. Generally, the person in contact with the drug succumbs within two hours top, which happens when I personally wish to ride home with them. They spill all these secrets and I find out that they weren't who they said they were..." At the blonde's words, Roy's throat seized up. Did he say something regarding Syrenet in his ramblings? Is Link going to kill him on the spot? He never thought of that possibility. "Though I wish there were more times when the party in question did not have anything to hide, as that has happened once or twice, but a man often keeps his secrets underneath his tongue."

Roy regards the arms dealer with a look that he can only hope and pray is one that does not show weakness. "And? What did you discover about me?"

Link smiles back, patting the redhead on the shoulder with a warm touch. "Nothing of worry, Roy. I may be a shifty man at times, as the business of weapons dealing is an affair of shady characters, but there's something I do not do. I do not lie, as I make sure my tracks are covered well enough where, if I have to reserve to lying to keep my head on my shoulders, I've done a bad job at playing the game right. What you did say _was_ embarrassing to my ears, but my stories are far worse, Mr. Arcadia. Now, do you wish to see the compound or get straight to it where you see the weapons and ogle at them?"

The redhead opens his mouth to respond when the sound of someone walking up behind them disrupts the conversation. Link looks over, another smile lacing his lips. A woman, much skinner than any man around Roy, replaces the void of the empty sky and stone. The blonde steps up to Roy's side, straightening his back even further than before. "Midna? What do you need?"

Midna is perhaps the most gorgeous lady Roy's eyes have ever crossed in his life. Her skin tone is dark and fair, a precious shade of olive with flecked hazel eyes that peal out of a cloak of ruby hair, sending shivers down the Syrenet soldier's back. She stands pretty tall for a woman, Roy notes, a knife holstered at her hip, hands at her waist. She speaks and nothing has sounded more sweet to Roy's ears than honeysuckle drowning in velvet, which would be the most accurate description of her voice which he could provide.

"Your appointment has arrived, Mr. Collins," she says, gesturing behind her with a thumb.

Link closes his eyes, nods, and shoulders to the men around him. The blonde turns to Roy, making a frown. "I'm sorry Roy, forgive me, but I forgot that I had scheduled an appointment with a client this morning. I have so much going on in my head that it's hard to keep track of things. This'll take an hour, tops. If you'd like, I can have Midna escort you around the compound."

Midna eyes Roy with peculiarity, and he catches the glean of an emotion in her eye. Lust? Regret? Pride? Admiration? He cannot tell, and it bothers him like a stinging slap across his face. "I don't know if he'd like that Link, he's looking at me more so for my looks than my _company_ , so to speak."

"Is he now?" Link guffaws. He beckons back at Roy. "She's a lovely box of sunshine, isn't she? Midna can see through anyone if you give her enough time. Would you prefer to be alone?"

"Yes..." Roy says at length. "If that's alright."

"More than enough."

Midna smirks, crossing her arms over her chest, expertly hiding her front which Roy minds himself was scantily clad, and he's sure she knows it and does it for a reason. "Well, then, Mr. Collins, it'd be quite rude to leave your guests hanging so long? Wasn't it you who said that you don't lie? Lying about the time of a conference meet seems to cross that border."

Link's eyes flare up akin to supernovas in the black sky of space, but he settles for a grin that is painful even for a man like to him to settle. "Of course, Midna. Roy, I'll be back in an hour. Don't get lost and please don't try to kill yourself while you're at it."

He jogs down the cobblestone path, Midna and the rest of his lackeys at his heels. Roy watches for a moment, standing precariously and awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of what to do. Roy Arcadia has two options, simple enough, and he's not sure if he can make them. Either of them, to be honest. He taps the device underneath his wrist.

" _Yes?"_ comes Ness's voice.

" _You heard what just happened?"_

 _"Quite_." Ness's tone is that of boredom, and Roy can only imagine the AI Unit observing all of this with a toothpick in between his teeth in his sheltered hubble of a technological world.

" _And what should I do?"_

 _"Snake mentioned, as did Shulk, that Link was to make an appointment sometime during your stay. Though neither of them specified on what day the meeting would be, gut feeling says that this is it. You won't get a better chance to assure Corrin's thoughts than by seeing what they're discussing. I'm right here, in your head, seeing through your eyes too, Roy. If you give me the order, I can get Snake or Shulk, and even madam Corrin on the line if it's that urgent. You in?_ "

Roy cracks his neck, feeling a surge of bravery. "More than ready, actually." He looks behind himself like a trapped alley cat, before racing after the weapons dealer.

* * *

Shulk winces away as the bright light flashed from eye to eye, the flashlight placed between Ike's stubby fingers, his face that of concern. The bluenette follows his superior's gaze, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Upstairs, on the second basement floor, the two can hear sounds of Pit's newest Syrenet suit inventions duking it out. Ike drops the light, sighing contently.

The blonde feels like a two year-old again sitting on his mother's lap at the doctor's office as they performed all sort of cognitive tests and optical scenarios to train his eyes for a presumable military background. Even then, at such a young age, the prospect is that Shulk Roberts is to become a working, running, killing machine. "I'm fine, Ike. You don't have to do this."

"You lost quite the amount of blood, Shulk," Ike says, dropping the light, the brightness disappearing from Shulk's vision. "Protocol states, written and approved by Corrin and all the senators, that any in command Syrenet officers who sustain life threatening injuries of the sort and other cases require requisite cranial nerve exams. What do you think would happen if Corrin finds out that you went crazy and no one here at the complex did what was procedural? She'd have our heads on spikes!"

"I didn't go crazy," Shulk hisses through gritted teeth, gripping Ike's wrist. "You saying that _makes_ me want to go crazy, however."

"Then what would you call it?" the bluenette demands, rising to one knee, head titled somewhat to the left. "Marth and I are enjoying a pleasurable conversation upstairs and we come down here to yelling. We burst in, you're covered in blood despite not having any wounds, and when I say covered Shulk, I mean drenched and drowning in scarlet. Pit's injured, cowering away from you in the corner, and Lucas is somehow awake and sobbing. You get up when we gently prodded you, croaking out that Marth and I were to help you, and then collapsed," Ike went through the details of the evening before, causing Shulk to wince. "You sound _completely_ sane, Mr. Roberts. Is there anything I'm forgetting?"

He holds up two hands a good distance from Shulk's face. The blonde sighs. "Really?"

"Procedure," Ike smartly replies. "Cover your left eye. How many fingers am I holding up?" His right hand shifts to hold up a finger.

The blonde sighs, realizing that he's not getting out of this any time soon. "One," Shift of hand. "Four," Shift of hand. "Two," Shift of hand. "Six," Shift of hand. "One again..."

Ike lowers his hands, giving another look over at his superior. "You're optical nerve works fine. How's your throat?"

"On fire like I had spent the night screaming at the heavens to give me something I cannot get back," Shulk answers.

"Oh? And what's that?"

The life is gone from Shulk's answer, eyelids drooping like an alcoholic except that he's not had anything to drink. "Fiora..." he responds, looking at his hands.

Ike freezes, having put the flashlight back in the medical kit, then depositing the medical kit above the blonde's head. He lowers his gaze to the floor before standing up, going to the refrigerator in the corner. "Fiora..." he says sadly. "You still haven't gotten over your wife's death, have you?" The bluenette winces as he asks the question. That definitely is not his best moment.

"No. Nor do I expect that I will any time soon, Ike," Shulk snaps.

"Beer?"

"A water."

"My pleasure..." Ike mulls over the choices in the fridge, taking a Coolers Light, tossing a bottle behind him which Shulk caught with much ease. The bluenette opens the can, takes a swig, slams the refrigerator shut, turns to face the blonde, and crosses his arms over his chest, the beer resting on the counter. "Now, I'm going to ask you this only once, and you have to be honest with me or I'll go straight to Corrin and say you've gone mad. She'll have you thrown out of here like a deranged dog to the streets. What happened last night?"

Shulk crushes the water bottle in his hands at the prompting of the question, crystalline liquid spilling over the cap and onto his legs. The cold feel of the water reminds him of long summers where he and Fiora spent together at the beach, mulling over what they'd call their children, or short winters where melted snow slid down his back like slush as he kissed her in an open field under the fire of a snowstorm. He breaks concentration, throat burning from the apparent action of screaming. Pit's reminded him nearly forty times in the morning that he wouldn't stop screaming, no matter what it was. The screaming is what turned Lucas's programming on, leaving the artificial piece of intelligence purely scared and freaked out beyond belief. Shulk's heart sinks. That's two times in three days that he's awoken the piece of programming out of a slumber in fright.

"She visited me in my dreams again, Fiora did..." Shulk answers, looking at Ike dead in the eyes, the gaze so disturbing that it stirs the bluenette away from the counter, to guzzle another long sip of the beer so he can listen to the story without having to face the blackness head on. "I can remember her laugh, her voice, her touch on my back as if it was only yesterday, Ike. Her still golden hair like the rows of grain out in some stupid Kansas field..." he takes a swig of water. "Fiora is in my dreams a lot, actually. I dreamt of her three days ago, where I bought her flowers and my house exploded. I know it was only a dream, Ike, but it felt so wholly real that I'm unsure whether or not I truly had been sleeping. I watched her burn in front of my eyes. Her skin fell off like paper mache and turned to singes of ash that flowed around. The flowers in my hand were torched, my face wet with tears but I stood there and did nothing! Nothing! Fiora died in front of me and I did nothing!" he screams this, the surge of anger flowing through his bones and riveting out like wildfire. "Last night's dream was no different. A nightmare, more than anything, Ike. She came to me, dressed like a woman who offers you that one thing we can't ever completely run away from, and I'm not in the mood to spell it out. That reminded me of the golden days, those days when I wanted a child, when _we_ wanted kids and we couldn't get them. However, this nightmare felt different. Too different. She leaned in to kiss me, like I expected, but then her lips never grazed me as she insulted me. Fiora insulted everything about me that's there to insult! My name, my honor, herself, our non-existent family... and I sat there and took it. I... I did absolutely nothing! There's a running theme in all of this isn't there? Next thing I know, I'm up and about, clawing at the bed. I don't know where the blood came from... perhaps internally. I vomited something up, dinner maybe. This snaps Pit awake and he tries calming me down. I slammed the lamp by his bedside against his head because I needed to be left alone and me telling him that did nothing!" Shulk stands up, face in a snarl and barbaric. "So, when you say that you want to go to Corrin and call me a psychopath... go ahead and do it then! Let her see the horrific monster in her ranks and let her do what she wants, Mr. Forgenson!"

He's done with his rant, his horrific spiel... and Shulk collapses back onto the bed, sobbing into his hands. Each cry is more painful than the last, a fell stinger that stiches and stiches but never actually clots up the blood, it sits there as a painful reminder for why he doesn't have any family, why he'll never have a legacy to live onto, just like the very one Fiora in his dreams insulted.

Ike finishes his beer, making sure not to crush it or throw it from where he's standing into the trash can. Shulk bends over, still crying, a unanimous wail of pain and desperation echoing along the halls. The bluenette walks over, patting Shulk on the back. The blonde's hands grapple at the taller man's arms, pulling him down and then holding him in a hug.

The embrace catches Ike off guard, a choke catching in his throat.

Shulk's tears dampen Ike's jacket. "Please... don't tell Corrin what happened."

Ike smiles down on Shulk's form. "Don't worry, Shulk. I won't. I promise."

The two sit there as the blonde continues to cry, not realizing that behind a wall, Marth stands, frozen as the sounds of the whole ordeal wash over him. The commander of Beta Squad swallows his fear, and exits to the elevator.

Something must be done.

Doesn't necessarily mean that President Corrin Etch has to be involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .. Ooh, what is our dear Marth Lowell, commander of Beta Squad, going to do exactly? Only time will tell, ladies and gentlemen. There we are though, Chapter #7: Foraging Harvest. My additional scene was meant to be between Corrin and Robin about adding someone into their secret service, but I've found a different place to put it so there'll be a scene there. See you soon with Chapter #8: Rebel Dealings.


	8. Rebel Dealings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Marth discuss politics, Corrin whispers to herself in the haze of a ceiling fan, and Link does business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, #8: Rebel Dealings. I've been very excited for this chapter for quite some time and the many that will follow as it only goes to show where this story will go. We get to see a few characters we haven't seen in awhile, which I am and I know a lot of you will be happy to see. Again, I pose this question, who does this rebel dealing apply to? Link? Corrin? Someone else entirely, perhaps? Or maybe it is a different type of rebel than that of what many suspect? Only time will tell ladies and gentlemen, eh? Enjoy Chapter #8: Rebel Dealings.

 

* * *

The sound of light banter flows over Marth's ears as he sits across from vice president Robin Wyndel of the United States, arms wrapped around the sides of the chair currently seated at a yard's length from the second most powerful person in the country. Robin eyes the bluenette warily, bringing the glass of wine to her lips, perfect, pearly, plump, Marth's own lips missed the savoring taste of the black drink as he opts for a simplistic and almost unsatisfactory cup of water and a ginger ale. She breaks into a smile, placing the glass back on the table, plates of food mounted between them. Marth smirks back at her, dressed neatly in a button down, freshly shaven face, new dress shoes among other things such as the gleaming bronze watch placed on his wrist. Robin is clad in a jacket, snowstorm silver akin to her hair which blows around her stark and pale face every few seconds from the fan above the duo blowing northern gusts and gales of wind their way.

Marth tips the ginger ale back and swishes it around, absorbing the light soda into his gums and the bitterness that washes over. She leans back, tapping her fingers against the arms of her chair, before clearing her throat.

"I apologize if this comes across as rude..." Robin picks her words very carefully, sitting up, hand going to her neck. Marth looks past the flesh and sees a golden cross hung around, hanging upward from her breast a few inches, resting against the fabric of the coat. "But, generally Syrenet commanders have no reason to speak to me. I take it Corrin was busy when you wished-"

"I preferred that this conversation would not be with the madam president, Miss Wyndel," Marth interrupts gracefully, where he does it in such a way that wasn't necessarily rude, but abrupt with a softer tone, like a gentle rain on a rickety, wooden wall of a dilapidated shed. He normally is not inclined to interrupt authority in such a manner, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Robin's lips press together wryly, her hands now seizing the glass of wine than the pendant around her neck. "Oh," and then a slight pause. "Why not?"

"Answers I'll get to sooner than later," the commander of Beta Squad bows his head, sidestepping the question. His fingers run around the rim of his water glass, prickling at the feeling of cold and chilled nights where he remembers days and months at a time being spent dodging security guards and breaking into drug cartel lord's houses for the sake of the country. "I found out recently that Senator Gladwell wishes to have a dinner with Syrenet and some other government officials next week here in D.C?"

The vice president's eyebrows lift at this information. "You'd be right in those standings, Mr. Lowell. I do know that Cloud himself personally requested Shulk to be there. Why? I cannot give you a straight answer to that, only a guess. Are you upset that you weren't invited?"

"Not at all," Marth says modestly. "Public scenes have never been my forte, Miss Wyndel."

"And they aren't Shulk's," Robin comments. "Yet Cloud wants him there all the same."

At the mentioning of the blonde haired man, Marth's face darkens, eyes brazing downwards to inspect the field mats and the carpet in which the two ate and drank. Robin observes this change, tipping her neck upwards, the sound of the cross jangling and hitting the table. "Have you always been a religious woman, Miss Wyndel?"

"You wanted to talk to me about Shulk, didn't you?" the silverette evades the question as a soldier would sidestepping a deftly placed blow.

Marth tightens his grip on the chair, stirring uncomfortably. "Yes ma'am."

"Something the matter?"

The bluenette drinks to that, with his water and ginger ale so the custom feels partly lost, which he slyly reminds himself, taking a gulp of both glasses. "Something give it away?"

She doesn't bat an eye, with her expertise and all. "You tensed."

"Yes, then," Marth gives in despite there not really being a fight to be had. "I wish to talk about Shulk."

The vice president sits up, chair creaking against the tile. "I also heard your other question, Mr. Lowell. I take it that you noticed the cross around my neck," she takes a sip of wine, downing it and the red velvet liquid disappears behind the veiled curtain of white, the last leeches of fall's leaves being hidden by the wrathful and raging dire snow of a stark and belabors winter that attacks from the front, behind, and the sides. "My parents raised me to be Presbyterian, actually. It's been almost thirty years since then, Marth. I'm non-denomination now, as there is no reason to pick and choose my rules..." Robin tilts her head. "Though I can hardly imagine that there's meaning and reason behind you asking me, it has me curious. Why do you ask?"

"I just often wonder at times how a woman of faith can be in such a treacherous world of politics and power, Miss Wyndel," Marth answers bravely, hands clenching up, fingers releasing the tension of a thousand year sleep. "Given today's political climate, I've expected the country to devour you."

Robin's eyes flash a sterling silver, a steely sharpness often not detected in the gentle woman's eyes. "You make do, Mr. Lowell. I am benevolent at my heart. While I cannot certainly sit here and say I haven't done derelict actions, sometimes they're in the betterment of the country than God, and it doesn't make the pain of performing them any harder than it would've been if I wasn't faithful. How about you?"

He lets out a laugh, one that is curled upwards and outwards, spilling out like rotting fruit in woven bread baskets. It curdles like spoiled milk and stinks up the table, causing the vice president to twist her nose up in disgust that she tries hiding, but Marth places a hand against his belly while he tips over. The bluenette sits back up, wiping tears from his eyes. "Robin, a godly man could not be in the position that I have to occupy. Killing isn't easy."

"I never said it was."

"But-"

"The people of Israel were commanded by God," Robin says, sitting up, back straight against the chair, head set down the lane on Marth's slightly frazzled gaze, "to kill, whomever it was. If God said to his children to slay everyone in the city alive, they did it. If you were to open the Bible and read the book of Joshua, it describes how the army of Israel killed every living thing in a city named Jericho; man, woman, and child all fell against the sword. He didn't spare a single one, except someone faithful and generous. Men had qualms, Mr. Lowell, and those qualms did not disappear over night. You're starting to insult me, which isn't wise. I try to be better than Corrin and how she handles diplomatic affairs without cursing and silently threatening to kill you, but Marth, if I am being honest, even an angel's wings blacken at times. I am _not_ going to sit here and-"

"I think we're straying away from the point, vice president!" Marth snaps, feeling all sorts of uncomfortable about him. It is tight in the air, clinging to his skin like a straightjacket which gives him a little less breath every passing second. He hates letting himself get off track in such a catastrophic manner.

Robin's features soften impossibly, impeccably, almost perfectly in all manners of the word. She beckons over a waiter, giving him her glass. The vice president murmurs a few words into the waiter's ears, the man nodding and hastening off to the kitchen for a 'refill'. Robin's hands relax, her right going back to the cross, clutching it like a lifeline. "It's about Shulk isn't it?" and Marth breaks away his gaze. "What... what happened last night?"

Marth sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I was upstairs on the command floor reading as I couldn't sleep, and Ike came to get me. We spoke some, went back into the 'barracks', and we barged into the room after Ike knocked the door down which was locked because Shulk had been screaming his head off. He was covered in blood, injured Pit... it wasn't a pretty sight and I'll save you the details."

Her eyes flicker up, eyelashes batting once in savor of the moment. "And how is Shulk now?"

"It's the reason why I wished to speak with you," he admits. "I overheard Shulk and Ike talking while Ike was giving him the customary cranial nerve exam, and Shulk explained that he had a nightmare from his marriage with Fiora. Again, I'll save you the details, Miss Wyndel, but bottom line is that Shulk is hurting and I think he needs some time away from the compound," Robin sits up to say something, but he interrupts her once more, this time a little harsher. "Not on a mission, as that'll only make things worse."

"A getaway, then?" Robin asks.

Marth nods. "Yes. For Pit, Ike, Shulk, and myself," Originally it is not part of the commander's plan to include himself and the others in the delegation, but having Shulk all by himself in his current mental state is nothing less than worrisome. "Just for the weekend, some private little house on a lake. Roy returns from Boston on Saturday... it's Wednesday, and I think it'd be good if tomorrow we got to leave, deeper into Virginia, just to get Shulk's mind off of things. His nightmares have gotten a lot worse ever since Roy arrived."

"Do you think there's a correlation?"

"I hope not."

"Why, again, did you ask me for this, and not Corrin?" the silverette frowns, then smiling earnestly when the waiter crossed over handing her a new glass of wine.

The bluenette readies his answer by running a hand through his hair, downing the rest of the ginger ale, before giving the waiter his own glass. "If I told Corrin of Shulk's outbursts, especially those that have been violent, she'd be firing him every which way from Sunday. You know how she is, granted your her right-hand-man..." Marth frowns. "Or is it right-hand-woman since you're a-"

"Marth..." Robin groans into her hands.

He breaks off into a skittish smile. "Right, sorry... um, anyways..." he taps his fingers against the table. "Corrin would not be nice about this, even if Shulk is the very first person ever enlisted in the Syrenet program. I knew you'd be caring, at the very least sweeter than madam president would be over this."

"And why is that?"

"I assumed that because you're a Christian-"

"So now we're stereotyping me?" Robin tilts her head to the side, causing Marth to sweat as beads of glossy salt and water slide down his forehead.

"Robin-"

"I'm kidding," she assures, smiling. "Sometimes Mr. Gladwell uses this fishing cabin near a lake over by Norfolk as his resting spot when he wants to get away from Congress work or Corrin's nagging. Two miles away from the nearest town or city, all private land... you men would get some nice piece and quiet for the weekend."

Marth's grin widens, starry and bright. He stands so fast, jolting the table. Robin catches the table with one hand, the other saving the wine glass before it was to spill the glorious scarlet contents all over the carpet which would be beyond embarrassing. "Thank you, Miss Wyndel!"

"More than happy to help. Syrenet is often underwhelmed by the rest of the White House, but I've been secretly rooting for you guys and gals since Corrin signed the bill putting it into effect," the vice president goes to shake Marth's hand, but the bluenette has a different idea and throws his arms around her in a hug, smiling the entire time. She warmly embraces him back, patting him on the shoulder, before returning. "I imagine you'll be driving there?"

"Using a plane to go four hours somewhere in a car is kind of suspicious, Miss Wyndel," Marth chuckles.

Robin nods, sighing. "I hope the weekend does something good for you four."

"Me too," the bluenette agrees heartily. "The first thing I'll do when I get back to Syrenet headquarters is tell Shulk that he'll get a moment's break from that ravish hell..."

Her eyes glance on the table, the waiter putting a receipt down against the wine glass. Robin clucks her tongue. "So... Mr. Lowell, who gets the check?"

The two break into a peal of laughter, and the sky is joyous by their contentment.

* * *

Red drops welt up on Corrin's pointer finger as she swipes the manila folder placed on her desk from a paper cut. The globule splatters against the desk like a cup of tabasco sauce sizzling against a smoking tarmac road, black and red mixing in an onyx and cardinal dance. She curses, going to suck the blood off of her porcelain skin. Corrin grabs a tissue from the tissue box placed near the edge of her desk closest to the door, dabbing at the cut with a crumbled up tissue. She applies pressure to it, throwing her hair around akin to a horse shaking its mane.

She glances at the folder, then turning dismissively to the window and stares out of it, longing for a day when the sun did not shine so bright as it did. The halcyon rays almost distract her from the upmost important of work at times, when she's on an urgent business call with the prime minister of Britain, or trying to instigate a war between foreign powers in the rain lands of the Amazon. Her voice warps into the ceiling like twisted sinew and tar tendrils pulling at the dust particles, darkening the plaster and staining the rugs with copper stains. Corrin Etch rules the iron throne of the Oval Office with a grace not seen since the old days of the late 1960's-1990's. Her smile is as fake as the knife pressed to a diplomat or senator's neck, except her threat isn't as see-through. If your president, if _the_ president says you'll suffer, she'll see it through the ends of your days that she shall suffer.

On a table set against the far right wall is a collection of the trinkets and presents given to her over the course of her administration. An election - well, _the_ election - is nearing soon, thirteen months off, yet she needs to start thinking, she needs to start planning and there'll be nothing interesting with no usurper rising against her in the standings. Her political affiliation is non-descript, all she does is say that what she does is for the betterment of all the peoples: skin, sexual preference, race, religion, the list of human rights and human classifications go on and on that says underneath the black oath that she'll swear to protect and abide by is nothing more than a mere phantom word on her lips wisped out to the rickety and dried up walls of the White House. Democrat. Republican. Libertarian. Independent. Conservative. Liberal. Marxist. Communist... it's all bullshit. Robin sees through her, though, and Corrin dislikes it. Leave it to Robin Wyndel to see through the bull.

Corrin reads the first page of the file, and in bulbous letters, written in a scarlet pen as if that made it more official, it says, _Ordained by Vice President Robin Wyndel._ Her nose flares, and she rips the page from the file, crunching it up. Corrin's blood seethes with an unthinkable rage, one she dares not speak unless an animal in the night wishes to consume her. Her vice president is nothing compared to the true queen of America, that one true president, a spot so faithfully filled by Corrin Etch which she'll do till the end of eight years. Eight long and prosperous years, if she's lucky.

So the question still stands inside the president's mind. Why does her vice president get the responsibility of approving something without it being brought to her attention? Corrin goes to the next page, and there's a foreword typed out in some Times New Roman like font, and she knows it all too well that it is size twelve, double spaced, MLA format... general science papers that bore the silverette to no end. _An idea to be placed to madam president Corrin Etch if she finds it suiting. Due to the Syrenet employees having jobs elsewhere out of the capital, and with the last secret service leader retiring after tearing an ACL and injuring his back, the president needs a new man to guard her back._ Corrin smirks at the writing. She can protect herself just fine, the silverette knows this beyond anything else she's learned in her life. If her hands did not work, the same hands holding the gun or the doorknob, her words would tear through the enemy at just the right pace, at just the right angle where no one came out of her chambers alive, feeling like the same man.

The flick of the next page reveals the one candidate that the vice president wishes to place in her last man's stead. Corrin steps back from the photo, smiling almost cleverly, as if she is forgetting the halcyon band wrapped around her neck. A few stats are lined up against the man's portrait, written by someone's hand given the swoops of calligraphy which resemble that of Robin's, a name that lingers on Corrin's lips. "Mac Sarasota..." the president whispers to herself, glancing a finger over the picture provided. "What's your secret?" she tilts her head. Every man has a secret. Every woman has a secret. All humans on Earth have a secret, from the very first second they are out of their mother's womb into the world to the last moment on their deathbed, there's something they wish to say, something they wish to hear, and something they wish to see. Their eternal secret, one Corrin uncovers quicker than most.

She thought, once, long ago in times spent frolicking through sunflower fields and diving into crystalline pools, the silverette believed there lay her secret. Her eternal secret, she felt, though it did not last long, was to be the ruler of her own life. Every decision she makes decides her own fate, not someone else being her puppet master... and Corrin realizes now, especially now that it is too late, as she watched her father choke on his drink, she did nothing but watch him die as he denied her anything in his will. Corrin Etch lets her father die purely alone on the right that she was nowhere in his will, and even forced he did not put it in. She remembers his eyes that were never appraising, they were always boding, dark, slyly judging her as his tongue spoke the words out of the mouths of babes. " _You've grown to be a spiteful, vile woman, Corrin. I love you forever and always, as will your brother, as will your mother... but I cannot look at you with pride, my dear. You're officially revoked from the will until you clear your head and past, but pray you do it long before I am gone and not after when nothing given to you is a blank stare by your own good man._ "

Corrin still feels the boil of excitement in her blood as she watched the coffin of her deceased father be lay to rest in the local cemetery near her house. That, is not the president's eternal secret, however, and she does not know what it is and perhaps never will.

Her eyes snap back to Mr. Mac Sarasota, and she takes an immediate admiring to him despite having never heard him utter a word or sentence in her presence. Mac is short for a male, only 5'6, in the middle age of thirty-five, Corrin realizes she's eight years older than him and as white hair, an entire head of white hair... how sad. His hair is short and that of an olive black, like a military crew cut. Mac's resume is quite impressive, having a few boxing titles underneath his belt which cause the president to raise her eyebrows. Mac Sarasota does not need a gun or knife to do his talking, the fists or enough and she cannot wait to see his punches in earnest. His eyes are a solid blue, a coursed diamond, rich like a blueberry wine or blueberry vodka. A bulking form, Corrin _almost_ curses herself for being married. Cloud Gladwell is an honest man, so how he is married to a snake like Corrin Etch is beyond anyone's guess.

She closes the folder, shrugging.

"If Robin wants to play her little game of keeping me safe from a harm that does not exist, so be it," Corrin says to herself, returning to the window. "She can play it. That poor Mac, he'll last a year give or take, and then he'll be gone. Pity, he's got a nice face..."

The president crows to herself with a cackle, clasping her hands together before embracing a halo of light and fan dust.

* * *

Link Collins never has said once in his life that he's a man of good manners, which he exemplifies by picking his teeth with a toothpick in front of his business clientele. His client puts her hands on her hips, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail with so many knots that garlic knots look easy by comparison. Afar, though he cannot sense it, Roy Arcadia peeks out around a wall, eyes observing all mannerisms and sentences being said. Illusions go a long way in the business of diplomacy.

Midna stands beside the weapons dealer, eying the client with a sharp gaze, hazel eyes scanning and discerning the real, beauty details versus the fake and overtly designed ones. She is proud to say that she does not find any to be had. She clears her throat. "Link, I don't think it is... nice," it causes the redhead to wince as she hates using such general words when there are vastly better ones out there to use, "to let her waiting. She's traveled for almost two days by car without stopping to come here, as your business prospect was too appealing. And now you're going to respect her by picking your teeth?"

He eyes his right hand with a glare, breaking the toothpick in half, blood being drawn which causes Midna to suck in a quick breath. "Right. Excuse Midna's brashness, she means well. Business?"

His client smiles, and though Roy does not know who it is, he can sense a feeling of importance around her. If he is to spend a few hours to Ike Forgenson or Marth Lowell he'd come to learn that the very woman standing before Link Collins is no one other than Sheik Braring, the rebel leader of the Midwest. Sheik, dressed in a grey shawl and skirt, presses her hands together. The weather is slightly colder for her taste. Boston northern airs have never settled exactly right with her, as Sheik is a Midwestern girl through and through, and no emerald elf punk is going to change that fact. "Mr. Collins made it quite clear over the phone that this is what I was to expect. So, Miss Midna, I'm not surprised."

Link's eyes glisten. "Do you have payment?"

"Most certainly," Sheik's diamond eyes match the same intensity as the redhead's, her own lemonade whip of a hairstyle snapping in the harsh Bostonian winds and gusts. "My men could use the rocket launchers and the mortars to good purposes." She turns to a fellow shadowing her, snapping her fingers. The man reaches into the backpack on his shoulders, pulling out a wad of money, several wads of money clumped up together by rubber bands and from Roy's position he cannot tell how much.

The weapons dealer looks nearly knocked off of his rocker by this, smirking. "My, my... you Westerners truly do pay your debts, huh?"

"What debts?" Sheik snaps her gaze to him.

He's unfazed, simply flitting through each Franklin bill after Franklin. "I provide weapons for the United States army and other military branches. Now, with Corrin's bill that extends it to the Syrenet program."

The blonde arms dealer turns to give the wads of cash to Midna, both distracted as if they titled their heads up slightly, they'd see Sheik's eyes flare akin to that of a supernova, hands clenched, teeth gritted down like a nose to the grindstone. Roy notices this awkward shift of body language, almost giving himself away with his shoes slip on the gravel beneath his feet. "I am not part of the United States military, Mr. Collins. Have you already forgotten what I told you over the phone?"

Link gives her a gaze just as contemptuous back, almost sneering. "I talk to many people every day Miss Braring, so forgive me for not remembering what political allegiance or group you belong to. I am for most certain these weapons aren't being given to some Texas choir boys group, but for all I know, you're a crime kingpin in Sacramento..." he scowls, wanting a cigarette. The blonde doesn't smoke that often, as actually the last time he placed a tobacco rod of death between his teeth was in the White House with Corrin.

Sheik's frown curls into that of a smile. "Something of similar tastes, Mr. Collins."

"Oh?"

Midna raises her head, brain connecting thoughts to each other. "Rebels..."

The leader of the Midwestern rebel bands grins. "Yes, you're correct."

"Rebels..." Link lets the word slip off his tongue like silky butter sliding against a piece of toast. "The same ones going after Corrin's Syrenet project, huh? You need these weapons for some sacking of a city with the scientific development there?"

"I prefer my plans to not be disclosed. Join my cause, and maybe you'll learn some things."

By the corner behind the wall, Roy is this close to screaming, so he bites down on his tongue to stop the sound from seeping through, giving away his attention. The lucid taste of copper fills his mouth, staining his cheeks and teeth with the rusted brown stain of human life. By the trio of dealings, Link rewinds a few words Sheik said to his ears, his gaze becoming murderous, the weapons dealer gripping the blonde's elbow roughly.

"Rebels?" he hisses through his teeth. "The same ones who attacked a branch of mine in Portland? The same rebel group who destroyed almost four million dollars of merchandise and killed like an eighth of those who work for me?" Link leans in, gritting his teeth together viciously. "I find out you so much as had a hair in that mess, I will murder you myself, Miss Braring, I swear it by-"

Sheik removes Link's grip by grabbing his hand with the other, twisting his pointer, middle, and ring finger together, causing the blonde man to cry out. Midna tenses, hand going to her waist. Roy's breath hitches in his throat. He's not so sure how happy he is to witness a murder, though the words uttered between the trio were enough to incarcerate them all, Corrin's suspicious true. It hits him momentarily. Corrin Etch _is_ right? Is this the first time the woman has ever been right?

Sheik snaps a glance at Midna, the ferociousness in the fiery orbs causing Midna herself to stir uneasily as Link feels the pain erupt all over his hand. Sheik lets go, grabbing Link by the lapels of his jacket. "Do not combine me with that group of rebels, Mr. Collins! Those who disagree with the government on the West coast are not associated with me or those I lead. We share a common enemy, nonetheless, that being Corrin and Syrenet, but their methods are far more brutish. Attacking innocents is deplorable. I am sorry for what they did in Portland, but I did not order that nor did I have any part in that."

"How can I trust you with that?"

"I would've killed you with my own hands just now had I been behind that," she threatens, and Roy believes it.

"Seems like you aren't above killing people, though, Miss Braring," Link says with snark, perhaps playing to an imaginary lord of death as the blonde dances with his life hanging by a gentle and loose thread. "You and your wildling group of people with distaste for the establishment that keeps this country afloat destroyed the company of Oklahoma City. Anything to say in defense to that?"

Sheik eyes the weapons dealer with a laugh. "You think you're so clever, Mr. Collins, but you're stupider than I thought," she jests. "I told you that my enemy is Syrenet, and then that foul trash comes in and desecrates the city in which I grew up. I capitalized and took action on the opportunity presented to me. President Etch wanted those men dead, as you know those on the frontline besides those commanders had nothing but blanks in their rifles-"

"Rifles that they did not buy from me..." Link interrupts smarmily, smirking.

She grits her teeth, tightening her grip around the coat lapels. "Forty men in Syrenet died. How many do you think our venomous president Corrin Etch kills a day under her administration if you so as much look at her the wrong way? Oh, believe me, Mr. Collins, I know what you see in the silverette she-devil, given the tabloids say you're constantly in the White House-"

"For business matters!" Midna snarls, stepping in between them.

"He's there regardless. I imagine, in certain circles, that looks quite auspicious," Sheik points out, shooing the redhead away with the quick jut of her head backwards. "The same group you pledged allegiance to, you're now betraying them. You said you're a man of honor, especially to your words."

"I am!" Link throws his hands up in the air. "I am a man of word, to one thing in the world, called money. You hold the money, you hold the golden ticket to a man's personal heaven, and then it means you hold the power. My allegiance is to those who pay, not to those who feel they deserve it without having the coin in their pocket to not pay for services."

The blonde rebel leader unlatches herself off of Link's jacket. She looks at the two of them, Midna and Link, with a glare. "I hope the funds given to you help in some way, shape, or form. If you use my money to build more weapons and those weapons are given to Syrenet soldiers, I promise that'll it be alright, as business is business. I expect to see my shipment of guns and other machines sent my camp address like I gave you by the weekend or otherwise I'll come back here myself and take your entire supply with me, along with your head," she threatens. Sheik turns around, business being done nice and well, Link Collins for once speechless as the rebel walks back down the cobblestone path, her guards at her heels. The blonde stops by the iron wrung, the iron black gates. "You're such a pitiful man, Mr. Collins. I hope you redeem yourself sometime in this world before you die..."

With that, she vanishes in a peal of car exhaust and smoke, leaving Link fuming. Midna's hands trace symbols into his shoulders, across his clavicle, and she nods at him before vanishing into the compound.

Roy stands away from his spot, having recorded the entire conversation, plus seeing it with his own eyes. The redhead looks around with panic shooting through his veins, taking off further into the buildings of iron, bullets, and black plastic.

Link looks up from his hands, mind musing over the conversation that just had taken place. A pebble from Roy's run dislodges and taps down the sidewalk, causing the blonde to sway from side to side with his gaze. He swears to himself, as he knows that he isn't crazy, that something was there, someone _is_ there. Link shrugs, running a hand through his hair.

"Probably just the wind... or maybe I'm losing my freaking mind..." he mutters to himself, trudging after Midna.

In the sky far and up above, the sky is gray and bleak with clouds of fumigation, war, and industry.

An industrial war that Corrin Etch and Link Collins started.

And maybe an industrial war that Sheik Braring would be the one to see it through its end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah there, we are ladies and gentlemen! That was Chapter #8: Rebel Dealings, and man, oh man, who were those that predicted that Link would be guilty as charged? Seems we have a few smart apples in our bunch, good for you! Cannot wait for Chapter #9: Transgress Against Us.


	9. Transgress Against Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corrin delicately chooses her options, and Roy panics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, #9: Transgress Against Us. Enjoy!

* * *

Corrin brings the glass of wine up to her lips, legs tucked underneath her wiry frame, sitting on the couch in her quarters. The TV is a blaring mess of static and jagged bits of cardinal and violet pixels that blows in and out from the current hurricane raging over Washington D.C's airspace. Though she's the president, in which she reminds people of all the time as it is her sworn duty, sometimes there's things the government can't prevent: nature, nature, and more nature. Did she mention nature at all? Things roll together in all of her lifetimes.

Her gaze passes over the screen as the news anchor, a stiff man with golden hair that almost resembles her husband, to the string of words in sharp black on acrylic white moving horizontally across the bottom. A few taglines read... _Attack in Portland critical; fires put out, forty members arrested in bombing of arms dealership._ Or it jumps from amazing topics like that which give Corrin a rush of blood to the head to this... _Marijuana sales have dipped down 40% from Syrenet intrusions in several ring cities such as Denver, Miami, and San Antonio._

This causes the president to raise an eyebrow. She doesn't particularly care about the drug, which her stupid congressmen and congresswomen even dared vote to be a law. What draws her up from the sitting position, however, is the mention of Syrenet. Her orders to the group of two hundred men and women working or so were simple. Establish a branch in designated cities, nothing more. There is no sentence in regard to stopping drug trafficking in any of their contracts. Her nostrils flare. " _What? Syrenet is now trying to be the police in the streets because my business is getting their hands too dirty? Drug lords are worse than rebels..."_ Corrin takes another sip of the wine. Why do people in her administration assume to be the peacekeepers of the world?

A low jingle comes from her right, and she glances over, almost spilling the glass full of purple Merlot. The caller ID raises another eyebrow, and she seizes the phone almost haphazardly. Some of the Merlot tips over and splashes to the carpet, but she can get another cleaner to exhume it for her. Corrin hits the 'answer' button on the latest IPhone model, bringing the cellular device to ear.

"Hello?" she says into it.

Someone's voice, a man's, warm and gentle voice, brokers through and it sends shivers down her spine. "Why, hello Corrin."

It sends a spark of excitement along her nervous system, synapses recoiling and lashing out with an unrelenting fury. It's been too long since she's heard his syllables pass over the nape of her neck. "It's been awhile."

"Ah, you know me. I never quit at this business. New York is a testy state to run, madam president."

"That's crap, Cloud, and you know it," Corrin laughs.

Though she cannot see her husband, she can sense through the phone that her man, her Cloud Gladwell, is smiling. With his glorious blonde hair that is long yet spiky, radiant diamond hands, and a build most men would only dream of getting, Corrin emotes no emotion more than pride at the fact he's hers. Their marriage is linked by words warped with a zealous fire, kisses placed against temples and on bent hands with crooked tar fingers. She looks at her wedding ring, clenching her fist tight.

"Perhaps," he jokes. "Are you watching the news?"

"I am," she assures him. Corrin Etch is always watching the news.

"So let me get this straight, madam president," Cloud japes. "You're sitting around, doing absolutely nothing, while your country tears itself apart? The same one you took a vow to keeping aligned? Tsk, tsk... Corrin, you're on the road to impeachment at this rate!"

She settles to let her blood simmer, as her temper flares. Any mentioning he makes about impeachment gets her head spinning, and her heart to start beating as two of the presidents before her had been removed out of office for reasons to scandalous to mention. Though Corrin promises herself, and promised the nation, she's better than that, even her presidency isn't shrouded by some lies, bloodshed, more lies, and even more bloodshed. Corrin grimaces a smile for the intent at practicing one, as there's been complaints that she's too cold. " _You want to see cold?"_ she thinks. " _I can show you cold by letting the entire country starve! Better yet, I bomb you all out like the sewer rats you are. But, I can't do that, it'd be bad for ratings,"_ then aloud, she whispers into the phone, "Careful darling, you know any conversation of my public cell is recorded."

"I know," Cloud admits. "I'm lazy. Let your secret service agents hear what I have to say. Maybe they'll take my criticisms and actually use them."

"Lazy? A senator of the United States of America is lazy? What a shocker."

She hears the sound of a clattering coffee cup on the other end. Cloud gives a sigh, long and loud, and the silverette hugs her sides tight. Her husband is so close to her, yet so far. Corrin looks at the analog clock up against the TV. It's only nearing five in the evening, and even then the streams of halcyon light peering through the curtains are starting to still. Cloud clears his throat. "I'm sorry I haven't gotten to talk to you this past week. I should be in D.C with you."

"That's why we're arranging a dinner."

"I hope I made the right decision in inviting Shulk. I like the guy, but..." the senator hesitates, and Corrin can sense the fact he's tugging at his collar, perhaps sweating. "Syrenet has made him paranoid. He isn't the same gentleman I met five years ago at the gala up in Boston, discussing politics and the different types of bullets in guns."

"He was a married man, then," Corrin props an elbow up on the table where her phone had been resting, fist settling into the softness of her cheek. "Fiora was lively and it revitalized everything inside Shulk's body."

A silence hangs in the air. "Until you had her killed."

"I didn't have her killed!" Corrin snaps. "You know that! Shulk knows that! She was sent on a mission and died during that mission, Cloud. It's the same oath you swear when being placed in the army. Died during combat, you died on duty, doing a service to your country."

"She was four months pregnant, Corrin, and you sent her anyways." Cloud responds, as if that's not to make the silverette feel any less guilty.

In actuality, the president of the United States stirs in her spot on the couch, downing the rest of the Merlot in the glass. "If I could go back and stop from signing Fiora into that mission, I would, Cloud. You know it just like anyone else. She was the best operative in Syrenet's early days, even moreso than Shulk and you've seen how good he is now. Detroit was a despondent city, crestfallen in their goal of wanting to be a separate entity. I needed someone to go in and act as a leader to help unite the people back to the nation. Going to war over a city is pale in comparison to the actual Union versus Confederacy war back in the 1860's..."

"And now Detroit, Michigan is a separate entity in itself," Cloud drones. "Separated, yet a part of the Union they aspired to leave. How does that work, sweetheart? Why haven't you brought anyone in to snuff out that pompous group of leaders who run the city?"

"The council of thirteen is hardly my concern. They take twenty days at times to decided what color the damn roads to their city must be painted," Corrin hisses through gritted teeth. "There's hardly an army in those technological borders, no warheads, no nuclear weapons or helicopters. Just thirteen scared 'politicians' that say they're an entity other than our country," the silverette breaks her gaze off from the TV, shutting it off. "I knew Fiora was going into dangerous territory. Shulk wanted to go, but I needed him in Albuquerque making amends with the Mexican government after that oil tanker exploded in Mexico City... had I let Shulk go with her, I may have lost him as well. Who would've replaced him? Ike?" she lets out a bitter laugh, a howl full of snark and venom. "The buffoon who crushes a beer can in one go, has the heart of the giant bears you see in the Charmin commercials? He lets his emotion get the betterment of him."

"You could've had Marth fill that position."

"He's got good aim with a rifle," Corrin ganders, shrugging. "The bluenette is a walking PDST veteran who goes off at even his own shadow at times. I bet you'll suggest Snake, then, knowing you. He's nothing more than a guy who'll die from lung cancer before he's fifty because of the cigars and cigarettes he never stops smoking. Better yet, use Pit Icarus! The boy who knows how to hardwire a car, yet he's never actually used the suits of armor he's created to defend himself. No, Cloud. My decision stands."

He swallows a gulp of the coffee, letting out a sigh. "I love you, Corrin. I suggest turning off the news and going back to working. See you in a couple of days."

Corrin's left eye starts to twitch, and she slaps a hand over it to cease the irritant action. "Love you too..." she whispers, before he quits the call.

The silverette looks at her phone, staring emptily at its black screen before she throws it full force at the wall. She then seizes the empty wine glass and vaults it in the same direction. The next thing that goes flying is the half empty bottle of Merlot. Shards of amaranthine stained glass fly everywhere, puncturing holes in the curtains. A sludge of dark violet plops to the floor, and it reminds Corrin of Fiora's dead body, shaking violently in spasms that resemble being in the chokehold, the throes of death as the president looms over her with a sad face.

" _You should've listened to me, Fiora. Marrying him was a bad decision. I'm sorry."_ the president doesn't flinch as the sound of the gunshot echoes in her head.

Corrin slinks off the couch dejectedly, letting her husband's words reverberate around the room. He loves her, she knows this, but does she love him? The silverette wishes she had an answer? How many people would have to die for her to be happy? There's a question she'd never find an answer to. Her hands grip the windowsill, her waves of exuding anger practically ripping the curtains away from their perch.

"How dare he! How dare he!" she cries out against the walls, as if they'd listen. "What makes Cloud think he can just... _bring_ her up like that?"

She shakes her head. It doesn't matter to her anymore. She willingly sent a woman with a life ahead of her out to die, with a child that Shulk would never get to foster, all because the president of the United States was worried about a mission. Corrin stalks out of the room, down the ivory gilded hallways, and into the Oval Office, slamming the door shut.

She has a phone call to make.

Several phone calls, rather.

* * *

Creaks and groans of metal clinging and clashing erupt all over the supply closet's space, Roy bursting through the door, out of breath. His fiery hair is stuck to his forehead by globules of sweat that smell of rust and rat feces that have been excreted far past any due date. He slams the door shut, lying against the other side of it, chest rising up and down like the swell of the tide in the Pacific Ocean. He tries processing what he's witnessed, but it doesn't seem to get through. What he's sure able to keep together is that weapons dealer Link Collins, perhaps the most trustworthy, if any of the government's allies were fully trustworthy, breaking a sacred bond by trading weapons with a known traitor to the eagle that proudly displays liberty.

His mind is reeling. It tries going over things Snake said to him back on that tarmac when he was flown into Boston. _Call me if anything goes awry. Let me know whatever you can about Link. We'll get you out of there if need be, Mr. Arcadia._ Roy rummages through his pockets, seizing a metal disk that causes his heart to elate immensely.

Roy turns it on, the familiar and warming sky blue light enveloping the room before vanishing, replacing itself with the solid, yet hologram of his AI Unit, Ness. Ness's face is serious, no smart aleck features taking place, eyebrows furrowed as if he's thinking. The redhead begins to pace, running a hand through his hair, trying to keep calm, trying and failing so miserably.

"Ness, what am I supposed to do?" he groans into the rafters.

"You need to stay calm, number one," Ness instructs, hands on his knees, bent over to get a better look at his ally. "You're going to make yourself sick by freaking yourself out. Just remember that Snake needs to be told of the meeting that just happened pronto, as in now," he says. Roy continues to pace, completely out of composure, which Ness is uncertain as to why he's acting so weird. In all his years of being someone's AI Unit, when they're given an assignment and mission report, they do it, no questions asked. Here, Roy's running around like a scared meerkat. "As in," he repeats, "Pull out your cell phone and ring Snake up so many times that when he responds, he screams at you!"

The redhead blinks, breaking out of the stupor of confusion. "Right!" he snaps. Roy reaches into his other pocket, pulling a cellphone, an old model, a flip phone that no one has probably used in ten years, at least. He begins to dial a number, but his hands are so sweaty, his fingers slip on the keys. The phone falls from his grasp, Roy cursing. He slaps a hand over his mouth, hoping no one hears him. Ness rolls his eyes, the irises going white.

"You're alright," the AI Unit says after a moment. "I just did a scan of any possible lifeforms in a five hundred yard radius of us. The nearest person is one of Link's low rank bodyguards by the water fountain currently one thousand feet away, and he's walking away from here. You're good."

Roy runs another hand through his hair, shakily pulling the phone back up to his eye level. He successfully dials Snake's number, letting it ring, bringing the phone up to his ear. It rings, the boy's leg starting to dance crazily against the grim tile. The air smells of copper and darkness, one that causes Roy to gag. Ness observes the Syrenet employee go through the seven stages of fear, seven stages he designed himself. The dark haired AI Unit sits down on his pedestal, trying to wash emotions of calm over his 'boss', for lack of better terms.

On the eighth ring, someone on the other line picks up. Roy nearly collapses to his knees, almost bursting into tears at the sound of Snake's voice. "Roy?"

"Snake! Oh, thank god!" the redhead scrambles to his feet, knocking over a cardboard box and rattling a vacuum from its perch.

"You alright, kiddo? You sound as if you ran a marathon."

"Just about..." Ness says with snark.

"What's up?"

Roy wipes his forehead, taking a few ounces of sweat and slickness of the factory with it, the liquid splashing against the concrete. "Madame Corrin was right. Corrin is dead on the money. Link- Link is trading weapons with rebel leaders."

There's silence on the other end, and for a moment, Roy fears Snake has hung up, which would be the worst thing so far. "One second, Roy. I got your location here on my computer, following every word. We're about two hours out, as Corrin required the FBI to do a mission back in Connecticut, nasty business I won't- that doesn't matter. Can you describe the room you're in?"

The Syrenet employee, still out of breath, looks around wildly. "Some supply closet in the heart of the compound. Link had," Roy swallows. "He had a business meeting immediately after I arrived and said he'd give me a showing of the place, but now after seeing what I saw, there's no desire in my heart to go one of these tours."

"So you're hiding?" Snake asks. The FBI director sighs, one that takes a few years to execute. "Better than having yourself out in the open, that's for sure. Now, I am going to go back over what you just told me. Link Collins, the main weapons dealer for Syrenet, is giving out weapons to the rebels? Describe everything you witnessed."

Roy licks his lips, looking at Ness. The AI Unit nods, facial expression stern. "He's standing there with this woman, I didn't recognize her. She mentioned something about Oklahoma City, or he did and the woman got upset... I couldn't quite tell and I can't quite remember. I'm in a state of panic and-"

"Did you catch a name of this elusive woman?"

"Sheik, sir. Her name was Sheik," Roy answers.

The sound of a keyboard fills the phone for a moment, and Snake utters a quite repulsive swear word. "Well, I'll be darned, Roy. Sheik, this woman you're saying she's called, is the mastermind behind the Midwestern rebellion against Syrenet. She orchestrated the Oklahoma City attack that left Ike and Marth injured, killing like twenty guys with her. We were all wondering where they got the firepower, let alone the manpower, but we now know how they got it."

"What am I to do while you come? I'm by myself for two- two hours..."

"I'm gonna need you to-" Snake begins.

However, the poor redhead never gets to hear what Snake wanted him to do. Ness's expression sours, the AI Unit's mouth opening to utter a warning. Roy doesn't hear the metal door swing open, but he sure does feel the butt of a gun slam against the back of his skull. Roy cries out, dropping the phone. A warm feeling spreads down the base of his skull, and he feels it pooling somewhat in his mouth. He turns around with an agonizing groan to see Link and Midna placed together in the doorway, Midna holding a pistol which she just smacked Roy in the back of the head with.

On the phone, Snake's voice rises into a panic, the FBI director calling out the employee's name over and over again. Link sneers, snapping the phone in two with the immediate flick of his hand. Snake's voice and only beacon of hope for Roy goes out like that, and the blonde's gaze passes over the redhead, completely murderous, no bright light reflecting in the diamond eyes, now black with the want of murder and revenge.

Midna clucks her tongue in disappointment, cocking the pistol. "Come on Mr. Arcadia, aren't you smart enough to not use a landline that goes straight through to the airways here at the compound?"

Link does not let the operative answer, giving him a swift kick to the face.

Roy hits the ground, tastes more copper, and his world turns to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we are ladies and gentlemen! I don't have time to make an Author's Note, I'm busy. I love you all! Please review and let me know what you thought. Have a great day! See you all for Chapter #10: Collins's Arithmetic. Bye!
> 
> ~ Paradigm of Writing


	10. Collins's Artithmetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ladies of the presidency participate in a cat-fight, and Link Collins performs some subtraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, #10: Collins's Arithmetic. Man oh man, it is time and it is finally here, the chapter that concludes our first arc, Arc 1: The Boston Smuggler. Arc 2 will begin with the next chapter, but lets just rewind to how stoked I am about this particular chapter and that it shows because good lord Link Collins is going to be doing some subtraction here and you'll see his ego and his power go to an unforeseen height. Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

She stands on the tarmac, smirking at the sleek blizzard coat of paint swooshed across the side of the jet. Corrin places herself on the runway so her feet are angled at the same distance apart from the yellow lines breaking up the strip of black. She does this wherever she goes, purely for symmetry purposes as when things aren't in order, it gets her a little out of wack and no one needs a president who is out of wack.

 _Then how come you are always out of wack, Madam President?_ Corrin is not even sure which voice in her head - Link, Shulk, Cloud... all blondes - tells her that.

The silverette looks down the runway to see a limousine pull up and park, and the woman's nostrils flare, knowing for certain who is in that car and how she wants to wring their pruned, perfect little neck. She looks away from the limo, hoping the signs of her distress is not apparent to anything else other than clouds, sun, and grass. Her heart doesn't need people sliding little whispers down her back on why the vice president and president could be having a falling out; Corrin finds the attention rather fun, to be honest, but she's playing a game of chess where one wrong move may cause her the presidency, her life, Cloud's life, and other necessities she wishes to keep close to her.

Not that Corrin Etch has ever been an expert at playing anything of the sort, truth be told.

Her last glass of wine lingers on her lips like a phantom, Cloud's voice echoing in her ears. She's still upset at the call. Corrin is delighted, elated rather, to hear his voice and then he goes full circle by bringing up Fiora Roberts, as if it is supposed to help lighten the mood. The president is upset enough, she's mourned enough, she's cried enough fake tears to fill a cistern, about the blonde woman's death and it is not a death she needs resurrected all of a sudden. Not now, especially after Snake's urgent phone call on Roy Arcadia's compromised state. The president laughs when she hears the news. Not because she's happy, most certainly not, for the redhead's capture or even towards his presumable imminent death, but primly because the silverette trusts someone brand new and it got her backstabbed. " _Looks like Link Collins's favor has been thrown out the window..."_ she thinks to herself, noticing the sound of heeled feet getting closer and closer.

Corrin stiffens, not looking her counterpart in the eyes. She does not want to give Robin Wyndel, the cheating ass that she is, any leverage. None, whatsoever. She longs for that glass of Merlot. There's plenty of it on the flight, but again, with Link's words reminding her every second, the country does not need a drunk politician, there's plenty of old men who are portly and red faced to fill that spot by the thousands. How lucky Corrin is that those are the people who have to be her closest political allies. Robin stands peachy and perky, then decides to throw the zinger out there as the woman only lives once, and the worst possible thing Corrin is capable of doing is having the vice president killed.

"We're flying to the mansion?" Robin frowns. "It's only an hour and a half drive. Why waste the money and the fuel?"

"I get car sickness," the president keeps her cool. She needs Robin on _her_ side, not fighting for whatever else the woman wants to fight for. All Corrin does is make sure the interest of the nation, with her behest kept in it, of course, is the prime concern of the Etch administration. Anyone who wishes to deny the country its saving grace and future can be nothing but dismal matters to Corrin; a simplistic wave of her hand and they turn to dust, dust that she shall make sandcastles, roads, and skyscrapers out of. "I've had it for years."

"No you don't," the vice president quips back, quiet and low so none of the secret service agents can hear her. Corrin's nostrils flare, her eyes burn. "You're trying to make a statement, I've known you long enough to sense something like that," Robin admits. "Or you're publicly going to humiliate someone. I imagine it must be me given how you're treating me. I suppose I'll have to play my role of apologizing and groveling at your feet. The cameras will flash, you'll forgive me, and we'll go back to being the partners in crime that we always were. Wouldn't you agree?"

However, Corrin wants to interrupt, neither woman truly hates each other. They couldn't live without one another. On the outside, Corrin's fine. On the inside...

The temperature in Corrin's skin cannot be described merely enough by her hands and face feeling 'hot'. Take a sauna raised to the hottest degree metal burns at, then place that in Mt. Saint Helens, then take that and drop it into the Sahara Desert, fry it in Venus's atmosphere, crack open the sun like a sunny-side egg, drop the agglomeration into the star's core, and then let the sun perform a supernova that wipes out all of humanity. That is not even a mere tenth of how angry and boiling did Corrin feel the moment Robin's words left her lips.

She remembers very well, almost so perfect it scares her actually, the day she and Robin met. The woman, her vice president, her 'best friend', is nothing more than a one term senator from a state no one seems to care about, small and pathetic and drawn in, and when Corrin decides that she needs someone sweet to help soften the bitterness embedded in her by a long D.C winter, Corrin Etch takes the weak, meek, scrawny, and incompetent Robin Wyndel and raises her to goddess status. And this is how she's repaid. The nerve. The absolute nerve.

Corrin's left eye begins twitching again. "I know about Mac Sarasota. You know I don't like people going behind my back and hiring people into this administration without my consent. Especially if they're to be guarding my back. What if one decides to kill me?"

Robin does not even bat an eye. "Then I suppose you'll have to be nice to them, then."

"What on earth possessed you to think of doing such a thing?"

"Perhaps the fact I actually want the president of the United States to be guarded by a competent man!" Robin snaps, turning to the silverette in question. "Did it ever occur to you that people on Capitol Hill, and the people outside of the white safehouse we dwell in actually _don't_ like you? All the guys you picked to be in your secret service can fire a gun very well, but don't do any speaking for themselves nor can they stand in man-to-man combat. So, in fairness, I dropped someone into the male entourage of black suits and white business ties to help you that can use a pistol and their fists. I am so sorry for having bruised your ego."

"It's not about my ego?"

"Then what is it then, Corrin? I'd be delighted to know," Robin snaps again, and then more soft, "I do care about you, you know."

The woman blinks, and the anger recedes out of her in a flash. Robin's answer makes sense, logical sense, and for the first time someone in her administration may have done something on the betterment of the one leading it, not for their own selfish gain. Corrin's eyebrows furrow back together again, she's not letting her vice president off the hook _that_ easily however.

"I know you spoke to Marth Lowell last night." she rocks on the back of her heels.

"Yes. It shouldn't come to you as a surprise. The invoice crossed your desk, but you were busy orchestrating that treaty between Kenya and New Zealand, so I took some of the trouble off of your hands."

"What did you talk about?"

"Nothing of your concern."

"As president of this country, I imagine anything happening under my administration is my concern, so yes, Robin, _it_ is impotent for me to know about it." Corrin's eyes flash dangerously, akin to that of a viper. She clenches her left hand into a fist, wanting to launch herself on that tarmac across the black paint and pummel her best friend for all it is worth. Maybe she's just on her period and everyone and everything is upsetting her. Not the most unlikely of thoughts. This passes Corrin's mind momentarily, before blinking. That couldn't be it. Corrin Etch is just this way and everyone will have to deal with it.

Robin looks her superior in the eye, her own gaze matching nothing less than that of distanced caution. "Marth told me that he, Ike, Shulk, and Pit are tired of being confined to the headquarters here in D.C till the next mission you assign them. He asked if they could have the weekend off and stay somewhere. I let them go and stay at Cloud's little place out in Norfolk. With him flying in for the dinner this weekend, it is unoccupied and no one will bother them."

The twitching of the eyes resume and Corrin wants to scream. "You're just letting my employees stay on my husband's property?"

"What's the worst thing they're going to do? Burn the place down?" Robin retorts. In actuality, that _could_ be the worst thing. Give Ike and Shulk one too many beers in their hands, a cigarette or cigar, and enough country music, they'll have all of Yellowstone National Park burned down before anyone could scream the word, 'fire'.

Corrin leans into Robin's crook so her words go unheard. "As a reminder, I'd simply like to have anything done in this administration to at the very least be mentioned to me and not by some television news station."

"Loud and clear, madam president," the other silverette quips a smile.

"God, I hate you Robin Wyndel..."

The president, despite her stoic and enraged appearance, breaks a grin as well and the two ladies laugh heartily. Their voices warp together into the air like a harmonic note played by an orchestra in an abandoned concert hall, like those in Sydney, Australia. Corrin places a hand on Robin's shoulder. She has no reason to be this upset over a few executive decisions. It isn't as if Robin Wyndel went and launched all the nuclear missiles towards the moon or something outrageous like that. Corrin's skin bristles back to that of the cold air outside, and for once in quite a long time, she's content.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes. "I think that this week has been very stressful. I've been getting accounts from Snake in Boston that Roy was compromised and I blew things all out of proportion and-"

"Everyone makes mistakes..." Robin says softly. "It's just that some are easily forgiven over others. Remember that."

The vice president breaks away from her spot, going to climb up the steps leading into the jet, leaving Corrin behind to stare ahead with a look of bewilderment. Everything has been an upside down rollercoaster at ninety miles per hour, and Corrin's starting to realize that perhaps the world doesn't play by her rules anymore. Perhaps it never did.

The thought of that sickens her, but it does something else it too, something that brings Corrin to her knees as she climbs up the steps, secret service agents running forward to help their downed leader, their downed queen.

The thought of the world never playing by her rules sickens her.

It terrifies her.

* * *

Light streams through several open windows of a room that Roy does recognize, the redhead waking up with a groan. He opens his eyes, blinking, the world around him drowning in a widespread greyscale blur. He can make out a few blobs, several things he presumes that are people, holding black machines which Roy deduces to be guns. Shifting his gaze directly forward, a blur with a mass of blonde slowly walks up to him, and then breaking through past that is a cloud of red akin to his own, and then his heart begins to beat.

The grim figure of Link Collins breaks through first, and before Roy utters one word, the weapons dealer has punched him square across the jaw. Roy coughs, reeling back, trying to lift his hands up to defend himself from the other man's attack. His heart sinks when his limbs do nothing but struggle against the bonds pinning him down, the redhead's arms and legs tied to a wooden chair. This is all too familiar. He's seen enough movies to know how this'll end.

"The pretty boy is finally awake. About time," Link growls through gritted teeth. "I thought we were going to have another fairytale of Sleeping Beauty on our hands."

"S- sorry to disappoint..." Roy murmurs back slyly. For his courage and stupidity, Link socks the Syrenet officer underneath the jaw.

Roy's head is pounding, and all he can remember previously is Link's booted foot connecting with his face, the coldness of tile, and the unwelcoming fear of a black void where his mind lingers into an unconscious state. Link grimaces, turning around, nursing his knuckles. In the back, out the corner of Roy's eye, is Midna, the woman is standing impervious and tall, face devoid of all emotion, eyes suggesting nothing but impasse. Roy cranes his neck around the room to find himself in something almost like a hanger. The roof stands spacious and tall, the chilly gusts of air causing Roy to realize he's shirtless and he's missing pants as well, save for his underwear. He swallows. This isn't good.

On his ride lies a window, many frames dipping together in a reflective pool of diamond surfaces. Outside, perhaps a good quarter of a mile away, is a building, high rise, cracked, and painted a rugged Earth brown. It is all Roy can see from the window, and he tries looking to the right, but something prevents him from doing so. He's not liking very well the notion of not having a shirt. He strains against his bindings, Link walking up to him slowly, ever so slowly, booted soles colliding with the stark tile, a tiled floor that is covered in oil stains, crimson copper stains that Roy presumes to be blood, and other stains he cannot identify.

There's another chair in front of Roy facing him, though it is unoccupied. Link grabs the back of it, spinning it around so the back is facing Roy, and he sits down. The redhead tries to match his gaze, but all he sees in Link's disposition is fury, unmistakable rage and pure anger that sooner or later is going to spill all over this good Earth and all over poor Roy.

Link places a hand underneath Roy's jaw, forcing the redhead to stare at the ceilings, which is covered by blades hanging down, probably no more than five feet or so away from the Syrenet employee's skull. The weapons dealer removes his hand from Roy's jaw, going back to circling the chair and pacing. His henchmen and lackeys are all holding guns, some with knives and grenades at their belts. Roy Arcadia is no longer in Kansas, he knows that one hundred percent in full.

The blonde claps his hands, and so it begins. "Y'know... if the movies and the books have taught you one thing, it is always the new guys who come in who then stab the villains in the back. Isn't that the truth?" he asks, glaring at Roy, his voice jubilant despite his body proving an emotion otherwise. "The villains place their unguarded trust in the newbie who is now working for the FBI or the Kremlin or God knows what, anything the man in the sky can conjure up! However, in _my_ life, I've been backstabbed and betrayed by those who are long term allies and friends. My brother, my sister, a little girl who I used to play with when I was six... even my own mother. Put all of that in the past now," Link opines, grinning. "I find the movies to be sprouting out just a bunch of bs! No brand new person is going to show up and rip the carpet right from underneath me... but look at how wrong I've been now, haven't I? Damn Roy Arcadia, who hasn't even known me for more than _two_ days, betrayed me and the entire compound that works for me. It looks like the movies and books we all see got something right! Who would have even guessed! It certainly never occurred to me!"

Roy knows that what he's about to say isn't going to help the situation, he's never actually been known to help any sort of situation, but nonetheless he goes for it anyways because Arcadias are bold. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."

An unreadable emotion flickers across the arms dealer's face. "What was that, Mr. Arcadia? I didn't hear you. Speak up, please," he leans into Roy's comfort space, the redhead's exposed and bare skin bristling contact between the two like a thousand gigawatts of electricity spurring between the men. "I want my entire compound to hear you! I want the whole world to hear what you said! REPEAT IT!" he growls, grabbing Roy by the sides of his face, bringing him close so the redhead can look straight into Link's unrelenting stare of terror.

The redhead repeats it. "I'm sorry..." God, is Roy Arcadia a running record?

Link drops the chair back onto the floor, wiping at his face, nearly laughing. "Do you hear that, boys? The scared, helpless little kid from D.C is apologizing!" he turns back to Roy, scaring the boy half to death. "Apologies aren't going to save you now..." he hisses. Roy's chest rises and falls steadily with every passing breath. Link goes back to pacing. "To be fair, Mr. Arcadia, I am not a fan of bloodshed. It has never been my thing, so I get other people to generally do it for me. I also said that I am not a lying man, I'm very honest with my clients and they with me. However, I like to expound upon my rules at times on those who break my trust. So, the whole thing about bloodshed... is a lie, at least for you. Your blood will be spilled, and I'll enjoy every second of watching you suffer and squirm!" The man's eyes brighten to inexplicable heights, but he notices Roy's terrified, panicked expression and it sinks, feeling a moment of pity for him. "Last night, when I poisoned you, you really did say nothing incriminating at all on anything. All you did was mention this brown haired guy who you didn't like and that he scared you. I took it for an abusive dad or brother, or a lover or something, it could've been anyone and anything, and that's between you and whomever the guy is. However, I think you were referring to Mr. Snake Karlo, weren't you? Do you not know Snake Karlo? Y'know, the damn leader of the FBI!" Link roars.

Roy wants to shield his eyes from the anger, he needs to get out of here and back into the safety of D.C. "Yes..." he says weakly.

"I don't want to spill your blood first, at least," the blonde gives a slight frown, stopping it immediately as frowning causes wrinkles, and Link Collins hates wrinkles. "I like trying the diplomatic approach. The world is built on both diplomacy _and_ violence, after all. So, this is what we're going to do.. you listening?" Roy's head lolls around on his shoulders, trying to shift around in his bindings. "Some simple good cop versus bad cop, the easy way or the hard way. We'll do the nice ole' game of good cop, easy way..." Link says, a grin dancing across his face, one that suggests perhaps the man is not entirely sane. He swivels on his heel towards Midna. "Give me the disk, please."

Midna reaches into her pocket, throwing the arms dealer something that Roy cannot make out. Link catches it, placing it on the floor between the two chairs out at an angle so everyone can see it. A familiar sky blue light appears from the disk to the redhead, beads of sweat starting to role down. His heart begins to slam against his ribcage, and soon the pixelated form of Ness Morrison, Roy's AI Unit comes into view. Ness is standing in the center of the disk, arms crossed over his chest, and instead of his gaze being directed at Roy which the redhead expects, it's pointed towards Link, full on murderous.

"No," Ness says. "Absolutely not."

Link feigns an expression of confusion. "I haven't even asked you anything."

"I'm smart enough to know an interrogation when I hear one. I imagine you don't know anything about Syrenet technology, Mr. Collins, but I can hear all and see all if I technically choose too," the AI Unit's eyes flash, and Ness lifts his head up as if to muster a challenge. "Whatever you have planned, it won't work. May as well not even try."

The arms dealer grits his teeth, leaning in low. "Listen here you little wretch, I'll-"

"You'll what?" Ness interrupts, eyes flaring. "You'll hurt me? I am a hologram, if you have already forgotten. I cannot be injured in any bodily way. You won't get me to tell you what I helped Roy sent out, and you can't threaten me for answers. There's nothing you can do. I won't betray Roy, and he won't betray me."

Link looks debauched for a moment, thrown off by the sudden spark that festered deep within Ness's soul. He's been at this a long time, even for his youthful appearance with the hair and clothes. He will not betray his foundation, his home, his life, for some lowlife guy who cannot keep his word to one single person. The blonde walks around, shaking his head, muttering to himself. Roy tries stealing a glance at Ness, anything to get his own ally in the room's attention, but Link has a moment akin to an epiphany, smirking at Ness. "That's where you're wrong! I can't injure you, that's right. _But,_ I can hurt Roy. All I have to do is ask you a question, and should you or him not answer it, he gets hurt. On and on I'll do this. But, I will make sure our precious captive doesn't die, no. I need him alive. If he dies, then who will I have to hurt? Oh, _thank_ you, you stupid piece of programming!" Link coos low in his throat. He reaches behind his waist for something, and Roy's eyes widen to a new size that he didn't think was ever possible.

The blonde traces the edge of the knife he pulled from his waist along the underside of Roy's jaw, the redhead whimpering and struggling against his restraints once more. Link leans his head back and laughs, going to the second chair, pulling it closer and closer to Roy, so close almost that they're touching forehead to forehead. Ness swallows. "Look, I know you're desperate, but... but we can talk this out-" the AI unit rambles.

"Let's play a game! That sounds fun, right? Come on, we'll play a game!" Link's eyes are feral and wild. "I ask Mr. Arcadia here a question. If he doesn't answer me, I stab or cut him somewhere that'll produce just enough pain that it elicits a response! Sound fun?" Before anyone on either side has a chance to speak a single word, he's made the executive order. "Sounds brilliant!" he licks his lips. "Alright, Mr. Arcadia. Maybe you don't work for the FBI, as there's always loopholes and perhaps you're just a hired hand. Who's your actual employer? And don't say God or something like that, because it's bullshit."

Roy looks away. "I can't tell you."

Link flashes a look at Ness, who is eyeing everything.

"Who's his employer, machine?"

"I'm not telling you," Ness sniffs.

The blonde looks back at Roy. "Who is your employer, Mr. Arcadia?" Roy does not respond. Link flashes Ness another look. There's no response from the AI Unit. The blonde lets out a groan. "Now, this isn't very fun!" he leans forward and slices the knife down the underside of Roy's jaw, up near the crook of the ear to about where the skin meets Roy's Adams apple. The redhead's breathing begins to quicken, and he's wincing as the thin, yet damaging crimson line starts to leak blood. "Ooh, that looks nasty. You want something for that?"

"You don't have to do this!" Ness shouts, face paling.

"Oh but I do, you freak of nature!" the weapons dealer screams back at the AI Unit. His gaze falls back on Roy. "Next question! What did you tell the big bad boss Snake Karlo in D.C?" Silence passes over the trio. "Nothing?" Link steals a glance at Ness, the Syrenet device unmoving, unsure exactly of what to do. "Ah, the answer was supposed to be, 'I'm sorry Mr. Collins, I only said this and this.' Maybe this'll stir your memory, Mr. Collins!"

The pain is unbearable as Link drives the knife straight into Roy's leg. The redhead lets a scream leech off of his lips, cardinal matter spewing everywhere onto the tile. Ness looks away at the horrifying noises, and even Midna stirs somewhat in her spot. Link throws his head back, hair flowing with him. "Come on Mr. Arcadia! I don't want to injure you!"

Roy begins breathing out of his nose, trying to not focus on the fact a weapon has placated itself into his thigh. "Please don't..." he pleads.

Link turns around to say something quick and snarky when a loud, disturbing shriek breaks the glass on the window, causing all the men and women in the room that are standing to fall to their knees. The blonde yells out, and when Roy recuperates from the shrill noise, his eyes catch onto someone standing atop the brown building off in the distance, the pain in his leg evaporating. At a second look, Roy discovers that the building isn't even half a mile away from him, but moreso like thirty yards, hardly a distance where one couldn't hear each other.

Off in the distance, Snake Karlo is lying on the roof of the building, a sniper rifle crooked underneath his elbow, earplugs stuffed in his ear, a stereo system which he used to create the discordant noise by his side. He grabs for the megaphone by his side, speaking into it, before realizing it isn't necessary. "Mr. Collins! I'm so sorry to have interrupted your interrogation slash torture session, but I'm afraid the man you're mutilating in there is a confidant of mine who's true boss wants him back, unspoiled, and well, you're ruining her favorite worker. We don't want the mother's wrath to fall down upon us, do we?"

The blonde goes to retrieve the knife from Roy's leg, who is watching the chaos unfold with wide eyes when the click of a gun behind him causes him to stop. Link turns around to see that Midna has a pistol pointed for his head, point blank. All the other men in Link's group stand still, stunning blurs of action happening before them. Midna cocks the gun evidently so Link can hear it. "Don't even think about going for the weapon, Link," she warns.

Link breaks into a raucous laugh. "Wow! Not only do I have one traitor, but my most trustworthy worker in the entire compound is one too! Whose payroll are you on, Midna?"

"Mine!" Snake owns up to it. "Now, you do anything rash and either her or me puts a bullet into your skull. Is that how you want to die, Mr. Collins? Being shot in some hanger in the middle of nowhere because you couldn't put your pride on the shelf?"

"If Midna is yours, then who does Roy work for?" the blonde demands, eyeing both Snake and Midna carefully.

"Syrenet," Ness answers, eyes going to Roy who's been tiring out, his own eyelids starting to droop. "I'm surprised that I wasn't the immediate giveaway. What other government spy anywhere in the country or the world has AI Units at their beck and call? He's on President Corrin's payroll, and you've disturbed the wrong hornet's nest."

"Come on Link, give it up. I've known you for a long time. I don't want to see you die this way," Midna pleads.

"If you drop the weapon now, we won't harm you," Snake reasons.

"And instead I'll have to kiss Corrin's fat ass and beg for my life?" Link's eyes burn with hellfire.

"It's better than death."

"Please, don't do this..." Midna pleads once more.

"Fat chance!" Link snarls.

He reaches for something at his waist, a grenade perhaps, but that's the last thing Link Collins will ever do There's the sound of gunfire. Roy squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the impact of a bullet if one is to come his way. He feels the knife get removed from his leg, the sound of a dying animal spilling out from his throat. When he opens his eyes, Snake is marching forward from his perch on the building, sniper rifle smoking. Link is lying in the middle of the room, a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead, a pool of crimson spilling out around him. Ness closes his eyes, squatting down, throwing his hands over his ears.

Midna is holding the knife, the stained blade held firmly in her hands. The other guys in Link's group snarl, launching forward. Roy gets pushed back by the redheaded woman, who launches forward into the fray. He cries out, head hitting concrete, and the lights pop out.

He loses consciousness for the third time in two days to the sound of Midna screaming in pain, Snake crying something out in rage, and the raucous hail of gunfire to be the orchestral hit to it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know the last time I've written something so tense and intense for that matter, ever. Well there we are ladies and gentlemen, Chapter #10: Collins's Arithmetic, finished in all but name. That was also the end of Arc 1. Surprised, eh? Midna Nye, Link's trusted hand, isn't actually who she says at all but it is an FBI agent, which I bet none of you saw coming. I'm slightly sad that Link had to die, but there's bigger and better things on the horizon. This is the end of Arc 1, the Boston Smuggler, and Arc #2 will start with the next chapter, #11: Tinsel on the Porch. Thanks for reading! Please comment!
> 
> ~ Paradigm


	11. Tinsel on the Porch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shulk remembers what was lost, the commanders discuss Boston, Marth and Ike reconnect, and Pit places some tinsel on the porch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, Chapter #11: Tinsel on the Porch. First off, I want to apologize for how long this story has taken for me to continuously get back on track. I always seem to do this where I post a few chapters, take a long break that is beyond inexcusable, and then say I won't do it again when I go right around and do it. I feel like an alcoholic who says he won't drink but goes back and does it anyways, knowing it's wrong. Enjoy Chapter #11: Tinsel on the Porch.

Shulk stares at the refrigerator in the cabin's kitchen, gaze glazed over as if he's mulling over the fact the pictures dotted all over the pallid canvas could very well represent he and Fiora's old life. Before she... before she... he blinks, swallowing the depressed thought with the taste of sharp whiskey in a blue electric raspberry solo cup. No matter how hard he tries, his diamond eyes flicker over the photos of the president and the senator of New York. Corrin Etch and Cloud Gladwell. He's unsure why she has yet to change her name since the marriage and all, but since Shulk values his life halfheartedly, he isn't a betting man and does not want Corrin to chop his head off with a glare should he pose the question.

There's a picture of the couple, before Corrin's political victories, arm and arm, showing their great dental smiles in Cancun, tagged right in the center of the fridge. Shulk sneers at the photo, Cloud's sunbeam hair and perfectly tanned arms hugging Corrin in a vice as they smugly grin for the camera. He sloshes some of the whiskey in the cup at the picture. " _Screw you and your perfect life, madam president. What do I get, huh? Just a life full of mistakes and wrong turns. Fiora was you, you know. Then you ripped that all away_."

He imagines her standing in the foyer of the cabin, with her fluorescent pile of hair blowing in the wind, her puckered smile, her genuine hug she'd give him... Shulk feels a tear lapel down the side of his cheek, and to suppress the whim of human emotion, something in which he hates doing, the blonde clenches down on his tongue till the taste of lucid copper fills his mouth.

Shulk must've been doing the deed of biting down on his tongue for quite sometime as Fiora dissipates into an actual human body, that of Pit, the brunette walking forward with concern lacing his features. "Shulk?" he asks gently, placing a hand on the commander's shoulders. "Are you alright?" Pit is young, which Shulk intones darkly that he wants some of that youth, and because of his ability to be fit and youthful, he's charming and elusively kind in an angelic sort of way.

He gives a forced smile, raising his cup somewhat like a drunkard. The irony is, he _is_ a drunkard right now. "Nothing," he assures the kid. "I've been looking at the photos and they bring memories back."

Pit follows the gaze to the refrigerator, soft porcelain eyes lowering themselves to the floor after a moment. His white wings bristle against his back, the ones he adopted from that costume party that one Halloween which he has yet to take off. The brunette looks back at Shulk, face darkened and serious. "Good or bad memories, Shulk?" he asks concernedly.

All the Alpha commander of Syrenet can do is raise his cup once more, downing the rest of the bitter and satisfying liquid with a relinquishing sigh. He heads for the entrance to the cabin, turning back to face Pit in the shroud of darkness that is the kitchen. "I can't tell, Pit. It all depends on the empty cup and my emotions. Right now, it's bad. It could be any other emotion come five minutes from now if that's how my mind wants to work..." He turns away from the technician, exiting out the front door of the house.

The brunette runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. He'll never understand the enigmatic blonde. Perhaps that's why he is known as an enigmatic human being. Pit rolls his eyes, mutters something about deranged hermits and whiskey, and vanishes further into the cabin, looking for a particular item.

On the porch, Shulk crumples the cup in his hand and throws it out onto the lawn. He lets out a loud yell to the sky, scaring the other two occupants on the porch half to death. On his right, Marth is sitting in a chair, a book in his lap as the bluenette scans the pages for a dashing tale of knights in shining armor. Or perhaps he's reading a book on astrology... Shulk hardly cares. Sitting in a rocking chair even further down the white picket fence porch is Ike, the man guzzling at the ever iconic Bud Light grasped in his hands.

Shulk quips a smile. Ike and beer are so synonymous with each other. If Corrin demands the gentlemen have to come up with a project logo, like a trademark brand for Fruit Loops' toucan, or an insignia for a sports team like the New York Yankees, Shulk knows where to find the man. The blonde also keeps in his head the fact that Ike Forgenson has quite the heart if you know how to dig down deep enough.

Ike has his phone clutched in his hands, playing the latest app that came out, and he's been on it like a teenage boy who can't stop texting his girlfriend. He lets out a chuckle, seeing the litter in the lawn; weeds and blades of grass start to cover up the solo cup like it is a lost memory. "You going to pick that up?" he directs his statement at Shulk, eyes twinkling.

The blonde stretches his arms back and lets out a satisfying gasp as the buds of tension pop in his joints. He lets out a resounding, "Nope!" The sound carries off into the wind, rocketing and reverberating around like metal pans and thunderstorms.

"Well, I recall a certain someone telling me the very same thing the day Roy arrived in D.C... about picking up their garbage." Ike's tone is jesting, Shulk knows it, but the blonde is unable to decipher why his face flashes a look of grimaced pain.

"That was different," Shulk responds, an air of indifference surrounding him. "We were inside a government paid building provided for us. Roy didn't need to think of us as slobs, like the little defunct group we are."

"We aren't _that_ defunct..." Ike groans into his hands.

Marth decides that this is the most amazing and perfect time to throw himself into the conversation by closing his book, placing it on his lap. "Oh no, Ike, we're dysfunctional alright. Lucina says in my ear all the time that if I wasn't her actual soldier, she'd haywire my brain."

"Well that's because you and your depressing talks over your nightmares causes everyone to either fear you or pity you. And after awhile, pity starts to turn into anger."

Shulk plops himself down onto the steps of the porch, bare feet getting tickled by the waves of grass blowing in the breeze, listening and grinning as Ike and Marth go at each other like squabbling birds or cats, if cats had perky, high-pitched voices. The two bluenette men argue over the degree what is constituted as depression, dysfunctional behavior, and defection. Shulk wishes the solo cup could reappear in his hands as a full cup of bourbon this time, and he realizes that the words his colleagues are fighting over all begin with the letter D.

Huh. The more you know.

Someone else joins the gentlemen on the porch, placing a new clear glass in Shulk's hand. The commander looks up to see Pit smiling down on him, a hand holding a glass outstretched. Shulk takes it begrudgingly. "That better be vodka..." he grumbles. He sniffs it, finding a surprising lack of alcoholic smell to it. It's a gift people are born with, the man believes. Shulk takes a sip, almost spitting it out. "Good lord in heaven, Pit! What is that stuff?"

Pit cannot try to hide his smile even if he tried. "Water, Mr. Roberts. You should try it sometimes." The blonde wonders why everyone in the building alternates between calling him by his first name or his title. It is annoying. Find one and stick to it.

"You don't need to call me a mister anything," Shulk tries dejecting the courtesy. "I'm hardly a gentleman. I'd go as far to say I'm even a _man_."

Marth and Ike's fight goes back down to simple accusations and sticking out your tongue at each other because you can't figure out what else to fight over when an alert pops on Ike's phone, given Marth gave up on them - phones, that is -, Pit has his inside, and Shulk turned his off last night and lost it ever since in the cabin. Ike sets his beer down, reading whatever notification came up. The other three men watch him in amused silence before he starts to break out into literal laughter. The laughter Shulk can only describe has hearty, with a hand over your stomach, the other wiping away tears you get from crying. It causes a neuron to fire off paranoid messages in the blonde's head. Ike hardly laughs, despite being a quote unquote 'nice guy'.

"What is it?" Pit asks, standing up to lean against one of the porch posts.

Ike scrolls over the notification once more, giving himself some time to regain his composure. He can hardly contain his laughter. "Roy- Roy got compromised in Boston..." he says.

Marth blanches. "And you have the audacity to _laugh_ at that? God, Ike, the beer is getting to your head."

Shulk mirrors Pit's position by standing, arms crossed over his chest. "And?" he inquires. The man has only known Roy for two weeks, give or take, but he's still a new recruit, he's still new to the family, and he belongs in that particular family. The boy, though Roy Arcadia can hardly be considered a boy, is fresh meat in a dangerous political landscape like the labyrinth of Washington D.C, so for Ike to laugh, it is cruel, especially by the bluenette's own standards.

The commander of Charlie Squad holds a finger up to recollect the details. "Firstly, Corrin's assumptions about Link Collins were correct. The man is a rat. Or, should I say _was_ a rat."

"Was?" Pit echoes. "The guy's dead?"

"Yeah. Shot in the head, nonetheless," Ike shrugs. "He got duped!"

"How?" Marth stirs uncomfortably in his own chair. He's been sitting for too long, he almost resembles that of a wax statue at times when he gets immersed in a new book.

Ike looks at his comrades. "Link had a very important meeting, and Roy got caught right in the middle of it," his gaze turned to Marth. "You remember that Sheik Braring girl? She's the one who orchestrated Oklahoma City... well, he was her latest client, selling her great merchandise like flamethrowers, grenades, and other lovely weapons. Roy's mission, which Shulk detailed for him, was to see whether or not Link's accusation of playing for two different teams was true. Sure enough... it was."

"Then what happened?" Shulk yelps, clenching the railing. He's scared for what comes next, if Ike's original statement is anything to go by. "You said that Roy's cover had been blown. What happened?"

"Link tortured the redhead into spilling information," Ike answers. "He plays a few mind games with Ness, starts to nearly mutilate Roy... and Snake swoops in to save the day, with a little bit of help from within."

"Within?" Marth frowns.

"It turns out that the FBI themselves had their own little mole in the covert ranks of Link's bodyguards, a girl named Midna Nye. She was trying to get some dirt on Link but was proving to be unsuccessful. In drops Roy, not even two days later, and he's digging in a damn goldmine. Link acted all reckless, and Snake killed him for it."

"What- what of Roy?" the commander of Alpha Squad steps closer to Ike, a lowered hand outstretched over the white wood, as if his body movements are to be any assuage against his crippling fear.

"Roy's fine," Ike responds, and the light in his eyes goes out as he mulls over the injuries. "He's got a cut near his thyroid which may require real surgery... a stab wound in the leg, and a concussion."

Pit tugs at his collar, face gone white as his blizzard wings. "I'm- I'm going to go splash my face with some water. I'll be back guys."

Marth and Shulk watch the techie shrug off into the house, almost like a kid rejected by Santa Claus. The two direct their attention back to Ike who has reached the end of the notification. "Who's it by?" Marth poses the question. It isn't like he's not believing the words being read to him, the guy just would like some confirmation and a way to quell the booming heart inside his chest.

"Report written by FBI director Snake Karlo, sent out to all Syrenet and FBI agents about an hour ago. Because we're out in the middle of God knows where, we have bad signal reception, and I just got the email." Ike turns his phone off, placing it on the table next to the rocking chair.

Shulk is not letting his comrade off the hook that easily, and he slinks up the stairs and down the railing to Ike's side, eyes wide and bright in a blazing fury, akin to that of a supernova. The blonde is trying to formulate the words to express his anger. He's never been one to find something to always say. When Corrin drops the news of his now dead wife in his lap one afternoon while sharing Starbucks, he cries for over an hour. When there's the addition of a dead baby in the mix, the sobbing turns into mourning that lasts a month. When his bonus gets cut while he's working seventy hours a week straight out of college to help his ailing mother dying of cancer to have an easy go, he's crying to his girlfriend at the time - no Fiora - and lets life move on. But here? He wants to give Ike a little bit of his mind, and if the bluenette minds, well, he can go and deal with it somewhere else.

"Explain yourself. Now!" Shulk demands.

"Excuse me?" Ike retorts.

"You never said why you found Roy getting compromised to be funny? I don't think you ever mentioned in the ten plus years I have known you that there's humor to you in the potential loss of life with someone you know in the Syrenet world. Because, trust me Ike, we've lost quite the number of coworkers and brothers and sisters in this whole project!"

Ike's face turns a shade of purple, half from embarrassment, the other in putrid anger which causes him to stand up, getting in Shulk's grill, so close their noses practically spark electricity off of each other. "I find it even funnier, Shulk, that you, just two weeks ago were doubting the kid alongside I after you had just met him. I'm not happy Roy got his cover blown, we don't know the whole story. I reckon he made a rookie mistake and is now going to learn from it. I may have a nice heart and all, Shulk, but I have a backbone and realize how important it is to have your sides covered."

"But to laugh at receiving the news?" Shulk raises an eyebrow, backing up slightly as the blonde is partially intoxicated and he isn't a good fighter when he's drunk. "That's a whole new side to you."

The bluenette hangs his head low, quipping another classic grin that causes Marth to snort in disgust, rolling his eyes. "Shulk, I don't think you ever got a special visit from madam president when you were in the hospital. Corrin marches into my hospital room at near midnight one evening while I was recovering to preach the gospel to me on this fancy idea she had. She wanted a new recruit, and I was all for it. She starts getting into using that person as one of Link's ruses to possibly blow a fuse, and then I call her bluff. Corrin knows, as she's that type of woman, how Syrenet would look when fresh meat is thrown to the wolves, but she didn't heed my warning. I said the whole operation would blow up in her face, and she said I'd be eating crow two weeks from when the recruit arrived," Ike picks up his phone, checking the date. "I can now look at her in the face and call _her_ bluff like I did back in the hospital room. It had nothing to do with Roy, Shulk. I think the alcohol is muddling up your brain."

Shulk lets Ike's words ebb over his ears before the blonde falls back onto the porch, a wild ruse of laughter breaking through and piercing clouds like jets. The two bluenette men watch with a distant expression, Ike going over the things he'll say to his boss once the man recovers. Shulk stands back up, wiping tears from his eyes. He's unstable, rocky, but caring all the same and there's nothing the blonde can do about it. Ike purses his lips to respond, but Marth beats him to the punch.

"What in the hell was that?" Marth's gaze is sharp, fiery, and void of all warmth. He particularly dislikes people moving about in front of him as if they're being exorcised of demons that aren't stirring within their soul.

All the commander of Beta Squad gets in return is a hapless shrug. "I just love that I got proved wrong by Ike once again. Here I am _thinking_ that Ike is laughing because of Roy's poor misfortune, which you got onto him for! But..." his expression falters. "It looks like I'm wrong as per usual," Shulk twists his body around, looking for his solo cup. "Where is my drink?" he roars.

Shulk shuffles off back inside, however the man then stops at the entrance to the cabin. Ike and Marth stir in their seats. "Yes?" Ike prods gently, knowing full and well the blonde has something to say, he's just afraid to say, he's afraid to say that whatever may come out of his mouth will reverse the change of time, most likely.

"I lied..." Shulk says, voice hoarse, the complete antithesis of the voice full of vibrancy and vibrato as he laughed.

"Lied? About what?" Marth asks gently, hand going for the book. He's a man who can read and listen at the same time, except when Ike puts his shoes on tables which the guy really likes to do for some reason, but that's a different story for a different time.

The commander of Alpha Squad returns to his perch on the porch, head distended, shoulders down, eyes losing their sparkle. "I lied about saying how Fiora and I couldn't have kids. When she died..." his voice catches in his throat, and several tears start flowing. Ike reaches into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled up tissue. He hands it to Shulk who takes it eagerly, dabbing at and around his eyes. "Fiora was several months pregnant with someone- someone else's child..." he begins to sob.

Instead of Marth feeling partially elated at knowing Fiora could in fact bear children, it is the first part of Shulk's last sentence that causes him to freeze and then snap in a bucket of boiling rage. "Someone _else's_ child? She cheated on you?" His hands are clenching the side of his chair, knuckles white as the chair's paint, the porch's paint, and the seething fury that is blinding his vision.

Ike admonishingly places a hand on his comrade's shoulder, pressing him back down in the chair. His friend's skin is bristling with warmth underneath his light shirt, the former's fingertips are cold and senseless, sending nerve wracking shudders down Marth's body. "I hardly imagine that's the case. Shulk?"

"She opted to be someone else's surrogate," Shulk explains, voice nearly impossible to hear over the gusts of wind blowing over the cabin. "This lovely couple, God, I can't even remember their names, came up to us all those years ago when Fiora and I were vacationing out in Arizona. They are boggled down in children, two at their heels, the dad holding one in his arms, the mother holding two... that family had _five_ kids while Fiora and I couldn't even have one. It turns out the two of us had been staring at them all while we were waiting for our flight..." Shulk cracks a grin. "We were so jealous of them, even though I imagine that woman, whatever her name was, went through the worst of pains to produce the kids she held so lovingly. We hadn't looked into the options of being a surrogate because Corrin didn't like us having kids, which is understandable. Family- family triumphs over a mission sometimes," the blonde catches his words off, looking into the distance. Ike tries following his friend with wherever he is staring at, but it must be something beyond the world of the living, an afterlife somewhere perhaps, where there are gilded and golden streets covered in glitter and diamond gemstones. "Fiora and I agreed, shook hands, and two weeks later we get a call from her doctor that a specific sample from some man in Washington state had a very lucky surprise for us all. We did the process, and it worked... Fiora had a kid..." That, however is all the man can take before collapsing into a pool of tears, sobs racking his entire body as Shulk slides down the railing to sit in a heap at the end of the porch.

Neither Marth or Ike move until the former puts his book down again, leaning forward so his hands are on his knees. "Do you want to go and lie down? We don't have to go out to eat, if you don't want to, Shulk."

"No," Shulk wipes at his nose, pausing the crying momentarily. "I've already checked every nook and cranny in this cabin; there's no food. I don't think Cloud has vacationed here in eons. _Several_ eons," he then corrects. "I don't know all too much about how surrogate mothers work and stuff, but the couple were more than fertile, which they had said to us one evening over dinner when Fiora and I were off. They said we could keep the child, just the one, if Fiora hated child birth," he laughs again, and this time it is a true laugh that is airy and light. "I have never met a woman who actually liked child birth until after it was over and that had a squealing ball of joy, all red in the face, in their arms. We settled on naming her Delilah. Fiora personally had many other names, but because we were so lucky to have _even_ met the couple, we wanted their, that being the couple's, opinion. They gave us a whole list of options- Mark, Joseph, Josephine, Dane, Jeremiah..." he breaks off to give a snicker. "All these guy names, even when we told them it'd be a girl... so they then settled on wanting to name her after famous songs and..."

"You get Delilah," Ike jokes along with the blonde.

Marth glares at him. " _Not the time..._ " his gaze reads.

Shulk stands, feeling much better once again, though not by any work of his own except spilling privy information. "Yeah. Fiora and I were going to have quit Syrenet once the baby had been born. It was just a few more months, too," his expression hardens again, causing Marth to tense as he feels the man is about to cry again, and the crying is all for a good reason. "But I can no longer complain and wish about having a kid again, right? It was just a fairytale. And I'm glad it ended."

He finishes his speech abruptly, nodding, storming back inside the cabin. Marth exhales, runs a hand through his hair, and then goes to sit on the steps facing the open expanse of the cabin's front lawn. Ike follows suit, finishing his beer, leaving it sitting on the table. He sits down alongside Marth and the two warring Oklahoma buddies stare off into the bone beach blue expanse of sky.

The cabin is nestled in a nice crook of the forest surrounding them. Emerald leaved trees rise high above the foreground, the tips stretching towards the halcyon sun light bulb with longing. A lake rests about a hundred yards from the cabin, which is surrounded by other dense woodland, and Marth swears he sees a cottontail of a rabbit blur by in the wood. Everything is so calm and serene, it almost reminds Marth of home. Home. The word is foreign in his mind. He's unable to pinpoint home exactly, as it has been so long since he actually went back to where he grew up. Home used to be a town in the rural state of South Dakota where you witnessed thunderstorms and tornadoes be created in the blink of an eye, do some destruction, and then those phenomena of nature vanished back into the belched black expanse of sky in which they came from. Marth is used to sitting on a tractor, tilling the soil for his dad's farm, and letting the sounds of nothing fill his ears except for motorized tractor noises. He's lonely, and when the bluenette is introduced to the big city slicker, the taxis, the skyscrapers, and all the _people_ , he's unable to move and emote any other emotion than awestruck, reverential wonder.

He's unsure whether or not to say Syrenet is home now, that D.C is his true place of residence. There is nothing warm about the slate cube that towers over the D.C skyline. Corrin says there's a hearth for everyone in the government in that building, but all Marth feels is cold dearth, a death that stirs in the walls and whispers from the floors. It reminds of a library, a place meant for enjoyment, that is abandoned with rustled pages from books free floating in the oak prison.

Ike lets out a belch, and immediately blushes. "Excuse me..." his face goes as scarlet as the gorgeous sunset.

Marth smirks, and stares outward into silence. He is frontier gazing. It is a little activity he coins the term of once when he was in college; you plop your keister on a patch of grass somewhere and just stare up and outwards. It is enjoyable and passes the time. Although his friends mutter that it is nothing more than mere watching the clouds, the bluenette shakes his head and quips a smile as if he has one of the most amazing secrets to tell in the entire world. Frontier gazing is looking beyond the clouds, by imagining the vast stretch of land further than that, into the constellations of space and purely _being_ in everywhere at once. The frontier has evolved from the Wild West.

"That one smelled..." Marth waves at the air around his nose.

"Whatcha doing anyways? I'd like to have _some_ company while we're out here, y'know," Ike jests. "I'm lonely," he says, his tone sounding slightly wounded.

"I'm frontier gazing." his friends responds, and he leaves it at that. Marth places a hand underneath his jaw and looks into the spaces between the trees, the ripples underneath the water, the plumes of dust from a critter stampeding around on the ground. He's content. Ike, however, is not. He isn't as... deep, which is a word the commander of Beta Squad would be okay using.

"Frontier _what_?" he repeats, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Staring at the horizon and what lies beyond it," Marth answers. "It's fun. You should try it sometimes."

"That's funny. You said the same thing about reading and I think we all know how that one ended up, Marth."

Marth shudders from the wind, and kicks the step on the porch as he swings his legs back and forth like he's a toddler once more. He rolls his neck on his shoulders until it cracks. The pain is not worth it in the end. "That's because you never want to try something new. All I see you do is drink beer, fire guns, and be nice to everyone around you, " he remarks snidely, bringing his knees to his chest. Ike opens his mouth to snap out a harsh retort. "Easy there tiger, I didn't say there's anything wrong with that either."

Marth sighs, and lets himself readjust the needed pieces inside his skin, whilst trying to submerge the unwanted rest into the blue of his bloodstream to clot until he once again has room enough. Only when he has a mind to once again allow that process will it happen again, that's how it has to go. He imagines that he's stuck in a tub with dirty water that lapels the side of the tub, a stinky mess that reeks of copper, flesh, more copper, and even more flesh. Marth jokes inside his brain. " _Maybe I really, just really need a bath_."

The dirty water from the tap is cool, smelling like dirt and damp growing things you find on the sunrise sides of dilapidated buildings, rotwood barn houses, secret pathways behind the garbage dump. It splashes up his forearms, wetting his rolled up sleeves, stinging his cuts and soothing heated bruises. It's almost as if his mother, lord he miser her, was tenderly kissing him, slowly and softly enough where it's almost as if her lips were phantoms.

An amniotic lull fills Marth's mind, hushing the worst of the wordless murmuring, leaving the world muted save for his own heart beat and a dull, surf like a roar echoing in his ears. It's why he doesn't at first notice the rustling, or the sound. Prowling shapes that don't quite reflect in the mirror startle him now, unlike before when he was used to them.

He winces, shutting his eyes, the sound of shrapnel filling up the void there. Ike's voice is a muffled shout, then fragments of a grenade interrupt the shadow of Marth's vision.

Too lost in thaw of the waters, the sudden noise - the opening and slamming of stall doors, restless pacing of heavy boots - comes through a condensed decade of time that stood still and when it finally reaches him, he clenches the side of the tub. It is all Marth can do to ignore the nervous jolt down his spine, and he can't stop the pit opening up in his belly, a portal to black seamed faces with deadlight irises. He tries to keep his attention on the water circling the drain, the imaginary drain that is getting interrupted by the explosions of a battle that have never existed.

He turns off the faucet, the rusted knob whining shrilly. The smoky walls eat the sound to end all and leave only an afterthought that couldn't even be called a memory in his ears.

The farthest stall from the door cracks thunderously closed, when in reality it is Ike stretching and turning to face his best friend, rebounding harshly into the stone divide, momentum bleeding off into an abused swing. Marth looks at Ike in a fake mirror, he's actually just facing him like another normal human being, dark eyed and carefully blank; without his contacts he can't see the lines that make up Ike's expression, but there's a guilty shuffle, jacketed shoulders shrugging awkwardly. "Sorry..." Ike mutters. He hasn't apologized in quite some time over things that are entirely out of his control.

Flicking excess water off his hands, Marth turns and leans the small of his back on the porcelain basin, on the back of a new step, chin tilted down to keep away the scattering sun glare streaming from holes in the roof. "S'alright," he answers. Then, Marth frowns. "What are you sorry for?"

"For not realizing you were in trouble until it was too late," Ike groans into his hands. "You were suffering because of Oklahoma City and I'm going about my normal day like a jolly fellow, and you're at Syrenet falling apart, trying to build yourself back together and I wasn't there for you. I know we had that conversation at like four in the morning already kind of alleviated this, but it doesn't hurt me to say it again. I'm supposed to be your best friend, the guy watching your six, and I couldn't even do that."

He tastes pennies, the gritted stink of copper and rotting blood. Ike licks his lips, trying to get the taste off. Marth nods, unsure of what to say. "I'm not mad at you. _I_ should've said something earlier, too."

Ike grins wrily, a crooked flash of teeth behind thinned lips. A loaded smile stamped in unpleasant sodality. "Slipped my grip with what I said. I'm not..." he tries speaking. Marth looks at Ike, and thinks he is made of feathers, twisted and warped out of line which are insubstantial everywhere but alongside his shadow; rust scratches into his ribcage like a recursive disease, breath swelling over sounds he has no control of, over voices he has no name for, and Marth imagines him being pulled taut. Soldered and stitched over and over and over: no real repair in sight. The smile fades, all the lines on his face collapsing to hide behind his hands. "I just can't think straight. I'm sorry, I'm-"

The split light along the floor and walls wavers as if candle flame breathed on by cool winter winds, bony limbed trees scrape loudly over the tin roof, and it feels like the silence has cracked and begun to run over all those raw wounds. "You don't have to apologize. It's fine to leave it as is." Marth shoves his still damp hands into his pockets, staring back at the horizon. And he means it as an affirmation, forgiveness.

And he finds that he means it.

Marth then changes his thought and presses his forehead against Ike's shoulder. Ike gently, though unsure of whether or not this constituted as inappropriate, places his hand on Marth's right shoulder, giving him a slight squeeze, till he retracts and both men look off into the horizon.

All is calm, and this calmness lasts for a good thirty seconds before Pit bustles back out onto the porch, completely out of breath. Both men turn around, faces that of bewilderment.

"I finally found it!" Pit exclaims wildly, eyes jubilant and triumphant.

"Found what?" Marth asks.

The boy is holding a box that is a good ten by ten, propped up by one leg and both arms. Pit turns the entire box upside down and dumps its contents onto the porch. Ike and Marth's gaze is met with heaps and heaps of golden tinsel, the decorative Christmas lace falling out and piling up in a fluorescent lemonade mountain. Ike gags, holding his nose. "It smells like a rat died in there!"

"It probably is like twenty years old," Pit says, though this is no deterrence towards him. "I heard rumors from Robin that Cloud and Corrin left some of their old Christmas stuff at this cabin and so I decided to go sleuthing. This white porch is completely boring, and I think we need some color."

"So you picked yellow. And... only yellow," Marth rubs his head. "Great choice."

"Hey, it took me like three days to find this sucker."

"You realize that we are staying at Cloud's cabin... their _private_ getaway, Pit," Ike speaks slowly to the Syrenet technician as if slow speech is going to get the message any clearer through his skull. "We don't own this property and I don't think they'll be too keen on the fact you went through and made a mess of their decorations... nor the fact you personally spiffed up the place, no matter how drab and boring this cabin is. Do you want us to get fired? I kind of like my job, dude!"

"And it isn't even Christmas!" Marth points out.

Pit huffs a tuff of mahogany hair out of his eyes, his orbs sparkling with satisfaction and pure bliss. "I don't care. Let me decorate! We're having tinsel on the porch!"

"Just wait until Shulk gets a load of this..." Ike snickers to his partner in crime, elbowing him in the ribs.

As the sun slowly starts to set, Pit races around the porch, tinsel following him in a diverted wake of gold. He pins and laces the decorative spokes of plastic and thread along the railing and down the steps. A good chunk of the pile is dedicated to surrounding the window panes and windows in a halcyon trim, and it turns out that this particular set of tinsel is special in that it lights up.

The sun has sunk beneath the sky far enough. Pit's grin is devilish and wicked. He flicks a switch inside the house, the porch erupting into a Broadway stage of bright lights, golden trim, and Christmas bliss. Marth and Ike stumble back together, the former smiling and the latter just watches, cerulean eyes wide and soon he starts smiling too, clapping over his head.

"Wow! It looks really good, Pit!"

Ike digs into his pocket for his phone, going to the camera app. He snaps a picture of the porch, Pit standing in the middle, hands thrown up to the air as if he couldn't give a single care in the entire world. His face emotes genuine joy and Ike cannot help but cry somewhat at seeing the dreary cabin, which is meant to be the means of an escape, lit up so perfectly.

Marth squeezes Ike on the shoulder. "For all the sadness we endured on this mini vacation, I swear this makes up for it tenfold."

The commander is hard pressed to argue.

The trio laughs, and their laughs whip into the wind of their tale of tinsel on the porch.

All, even if it is just for a single moment, is right with the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we are ladies and gentlemen! That was Chapter #11: Tinsel on the Porch of Syrenet. And yippee, it is the longest chapter at 7k! I'm planning on Sunday / Monday being the next day for an update, with Chapter #12: Ness's Mistake. Uh oh... anyways, thank you so much for reading! I hope you all have an amazing day! Love you all! Bye!


	12. Ness's Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ness comes across a Pandora's Box, Corrin's service detail grows, and Roy mourns under greyscale walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening you guys! It's Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, Chapter #12: Ness's Mistake. As a fair 'warning', even though it isn't a warning in the slightest, the chapters are going to be getting much longer from here on out, none under 8k word count wise. Enjoy!

Lucas's laugh fills the surrounding basement of Syrenet headquarters like dynamite explosions in abandoned mines. The blonde AI Unit wipes at his eyes, sitting down on his metal disk as he stares across the table at the other AI Unit, Ness Morrison. Over in the corner, Pit Icarus eyes the two Syrenet inventions slyly, his face telling. He had turned both of them on for the sake of having someone keep him company while he worked.

Ness's face is beet red, and he takes a moment to regain his composure. His entire frame is shrouded in a sky blue mist from the disk he's standing on while the two AI Unit friends gaff and joke around. "No, I don't think you should say that to Shulk. He may explode. Haha!" he laughs, clapping down on his stomach.

"I think he'll appreciate the joke," Lucas rebuttals, an ever telling grin plastered across his face. "Besides, we share the same hair color. A wisp of lemonade, or a patch of sunflowers!" the AI Unit pauses, eyes shutting briefly, the telling smile softening some to the face one a baby would make if amused. "I'd love to hold a sunflower..." Lucas lays down on his stomach, hands underneath his chin, kicking his legs lazily behind him, thinking of sunflowers. When's the last time he's ever held a sunflower? Has he ever held a sunflower before?

That causes an eyebrow to rise on the dark haired boy's face, eyes glistening with excitement. "How's the garden coming along?"

Due to Pit's brilliance, and the original creator of Syrenet's skill years ago, the AI Units were given their own worlds to experiment around in, that when the units were turned off, they traversed a landscape only seen by themselves and individualistic to each other. Such as, when Snake used to have an AI Unit of his own, although Lucas now forgets the AI Unit's name, hers was a rugged volcanic landscape that she'd spend hours scrounging through, finding 'specimens'. Sadly none of what she found could she share because it was a part of the Internet and not necessarily wholesome.

"It's going great! Thanks Ness!" Lucas beams. "A few azaleas bloomed by the front porch of the house, and I even started an apple orchard. I'm gonna be sick of apple pie come next week..."

"Knowing your sweet tooth," Ness guffaws. "It'll be a day!"

If the blonde could push his friend, he would. Lucas kicks at the dirt around his disk. He frowns momentarily, watching Pit over in the corner, looking so lonely. "Hey, Pit," he calls out. "Do you want Ness and I to teleport over to you so you aren't working so... lonesome?"

"That's alright Lucas, you wouldn't be able to understand this..." Pit's voice carries back to him.

Ness closes his eyes, makes a smug smile, and opens them again with satisfaction glowing in his onyx orbs. "The calculation is forty-two..." he shouts.

"Excuse me?" Pit retorts.

"Forty-two," he reiterates. "The answer is forty-two."

The technician for Syrenet swivels around in his chair, walking back over to the duo, hands on his hips. "And how exactly did you figure that one out without looking at it?"

"I hacked into the computer system and saw the problem you were working on with that software," Ness smiles at him, innocent as ever, when truth be told the chip on his shoulder rose higher and higher till it surmounted into a mountain. "So, since _I_ know you aren't all that great at calculus, and that there aren't any calculators down here, you'd struggle."

Lucas claps his hands together as he collapses into a fit of giggles at the facial expression currently passing over Pit's face, mouth hung open in partial awe, eyes however blazing with a dull fury. Pit swallows an emotion that the blonde reads as fear. "Well, Mr. Ness I-Know-It-All, if you think that _cheating_ is going to make Syrenet's devices, which are used to help the entire world out, better, then you're dead wrong."

"Hey, it was just for fun..."

"Fun that could get a person killed..." Pit snaps, returning to his chair.

The two AI Units drown in silence for a moment, until Lucas bursts out laughing again, overcome with hilarity. "Smooth..." he comments.

Ness shrugs. "Eh. I've been on edge lately, with Roy and all. I haven't gotten to see how he's doing over at the hospital. It's been two days and I can't say that I'm not worried."

If the tension in the room was not dark and brooding before, Ness's mentioning of the events in Boston darken the entire room. Goosebumps erupt all over Lucas's skin and he hugs himself tight. Pit is immersed back in his work that he does not hear the offhanded comment, and Lucas frowns, something he needs to stop doing, as they can cause wrinkles. Wrinkles for someone who technically is eleven is not a good facial feature.

He tugs at the end of his cardinal and halcyon stripped shirt. "Ness... I've been meaning to ask you-"

"Boston?" Ness guesses, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Y- yeah..." heat floods and rises into Lucas's neck, who surely is blushing. He doesn't like when Ness knows exactly how he's feeling. The two do not have some ability to read minds or whatever, a freaky thing many magicians in the world could only dream and fathom of having. Ness turns out to be quite the sucker for knowing how people feel or what they want before one opens their mouth.

"Well, we've got all day to talk about whatever you want. I'm all ears."

Lucas licks his lips, all of a sudden missing his garden. He tries to think of sunflowers, but all that gets in the way is Ness's rugged face that is scorched and burnt and blackened and bruised and Lucas cries out, biting down on his hand. The blonde tries to stop the depressing thoughts, the malicious and horrific visions, and he clamps down on his tongue soon after that. Copper fills his mouth, the sharp twang and ersatz taste of blood, grimy and aloof. "I-" he stumbles over his words. Though Lucas Dio is beyond his supposed eleven years of age as an AI Unit, his mind is programmed to be as childish and naïve and sweet as possible. Dark, brooding thoughts are not often racing inside his brain.

Ness senses his trouble, shifting to the edge of his disk so the two can be a few centimeters closer at the very least. "Lucas?"

"What happened in Boston? To Roy, I mean?" Lucas asks, eyes brimming with tears. Human suffering is not unknown to the blonde, however it is foreign.

The other AI Unit steps back, face devoid of emotion. "I- I'm not quite sure of how you want me to address that."

"I'm curious," Lucas repeats, face rising up somewhat with a more serious look plastered across it. "Shulk hasn't answered any of my questions about it and I'm purely wondering... if Roy is alright."

Ness's face softens, eyebrows lowering down to their normal position. "Even though I feel like no one programmed you to be caring, you have the most gentle heart one can ask for. Roy's fine, Lucas. He's injured, is all. Madam Corrin is giving a two week rest before he's needed again for some other project. It means _I_ get two weeks of leisure as well. You might have to go with Shulk somewhere if need be."

"No, that's not what I'm asking," the blonde presses his lips together firmly, shaking his head in dissent. "I want to know exactly _what_ happened over there in Boston. What happened for Roy to get injured."

"Oh."

The dark haired AI Unit is silent for a few moments, though to Lucas they feel as if hours are slowly ticking by. There's never enough assurance one can give him that things will end up alright. "I see. Well... Roy's mission was to find out whether or not Link Collins, a beneficiary Syrenet used for weapons, was selling his merchandise as contraband to the rebel forces across the country to go against our foundation. We discovered that he had indeed been doing this and we tried warning Snake Karlo, the boss of the FBI. However, in Roy's haste and panic, he got ourselves caught. Link, several hours later, tried interrogating him on what he sent out, and he threatened me as well."

"Link?" Lucas's eyes go wide. "How- I-"

"There's nothing Link could've done besides destroy the disk that'd hurt me in any physical way," Ness blanches, almost throwing up at the next thought. "So, the next best thing to do was have me watch as he mutilated and began cutting up Roy. He'd ask a question, I didn't answer, Roy didn't answer, and so Link went to work. This lasted for a few minutes until Snake arrived as the one reinforcement and saved us. Turns out there was someone from the FBI also infiltrating the ranks in Boston, and she too turned on Link when things became..." he struggles for the word. "Dicey."

"What are Roy's," Lucas swallows his disgust and fear. "Injuries?"

Ness starts ticking them off by counting on his fingers, though the expression placated on his face is hardly one of genuine thought, moreso horror at the remembrance and the scrunching of the nose. "A stab wound to the leg. Mild concussion. A cut from the earlobe down to the thyroid gland. Bruises, a hurt rib, though it isn't broken... Link got to Roy good and definitely punished him for it."

"He survived all that?" the blonde's tone of voice is incredulous, eyes as wide as saucers.

"Roy's rather resilient. He doesn't know when he's down. I suppose that makes him reliable in a way that he's stalling, though he doesn't know it yet."

Lucas looks at his best friend with a face of awestruck reverence. He wishes to be Ness, partially. Just, how he is so brave and smug and short with those that he does not like, knowing fully well where his future may end up as a deserted disk in a pile full of trash in a scrap yard; another metallic piece of junk that has outlived its purpose is where the AI Units are headed. The blonde aspires to be more than this gentle loving kid, he enjoys nature, he would rather enjoy fighting and mustering up the defense to fight back against tormentors who wish to hurt Shulk. He loves Shulk more than anything, the one person he calls a dad while he's stuck inside a program's body. Lucas knows that Ness loves Roy Arcadia too, though the dark haired AI Unit hates to admit it, as showing loving emotions towards people is something he _wasn't_ programmed with.

That is the second goal in Lucas's time as an AI Unit. The blonde wants to break free from the mold, to enact against orders... no longer does he desire being another oiled cog in the ever winding machine that stops only when all the other pieces break too. If Lucas is defunct, he needs and wants the entire operation to stop. It isn't meant to be a snap of the fingers and then getting replaced.

"I-" Lucas opens his mouth to respond when he is interrupted by the power going out. The light in the center of the room blinks momentarily before turning to a black void of dust and flies. The other lights hanging in the room all shut off, including Pit's computer which elicits a wicked howl from the technician. Lucas and Ness's bases of their disks illuminate a neon raspberry electric blue, half of the room drowning in a blueberry sea. Pit slides back from the desk, running a hand through his hair.

"Dammit..." he groans. "Now I've got to go and find which power box died. I really don't want to reroute the whole mainframe..." Pit laments to no one in particular. He shrugs off to the elevator, which is glowing a stunning fluorescent as the backup generator for the basement kicks into gear.

Ness's eyes glaze over briefly, while the elevator doors close shut. He taps himself into the intercoms, which due to Syrenet's building wiring, is separated from the original power grid as communication is critical in a crisis. Lucas observes Ness going to work, mouth hanging open. "Pit, it is Breaker 12 on floor nine," he announces over the intercom throughout the whole building, which is currently empty as it is early, _early_ in the morning and no one arrives to Syrenet earlier than Pit. "I think it is the green and red wires that snapped, something intertwined them on accident." Ness says.

"Thank you..." comes Pit's voice from the ceiling, and then in a whisper, "Smart-ass..."

"Language!" Ness chides the technician.

Lucas looks around the room, noting that he truly cannot see anything more than four to five inches in front of his face as there's such little light. "Man, without light, it looks like a bog down here." His words go out, but Ness is not noticing as he's bent on something that Lucas cannot see.

"Hey... that's weird..." Ness comments randomly.

"What?"

"Because of the power outage, my file screen is randomized and there are folders here that I haven't seen before."

Something unsettling stirs over Lucas's skin, and just like before, he is truly, _really_ missing that garden of his. "Oh."

Ness's eyes search over his 'screen' in front of him, detailing multiple folders and files of Syrenet and government operations. His eyes glance over something that raises more than just his attention, but a feeling of dread. "What's this?"

"You find something?"

"Do- do you recognize this name, Lucas?" Ness asks. He rereads over it. "A... Fiora Roberts?"

Lucas balks a little, the name reminding him of so many things in a dark past he wishes that he can simply move on from. "Yeah... that's um... Shulk's ex-wife. She died while on a mission to Chicago. Why?"

"One of the files has her name on it. It says it's classified."

"Are you going to look at it?"

"I don't know. It's the only file in the collection that I have where it has a Syrenet employee's name... so it must be important."

"You can have fun with that, then. If the power outage messed up your regularly functioning systems, who knows what happened to our programmed worlds. I need to go and check up on my garden. The azaleas are probably all dead."

Lucas's disk blips off, the blue shroud disappearing all over the room while, over in his corner, Ness's eyes widen in horror.

"NO!" Ness screams at his screen.

The room goes dark.

* * *

Corrin lowers her shades as she steps out of the limousine, giving pleasantries and courtesies to the driver. She waits patiently for Robin to step out of the other side before the car peels away, leaving a plume of ashy smoke in its wake. The president coughs, tilting herself away from the air pollution. Her vice president matches her stride to stand side by side with her as they gaze at the mansion in which the dinner party for tomorrow was to be taking place.

The house or mansion, Corrin sometimes meshed the two words together and called it a 'housion', was not necessarily large in terms of being tall. It stands at only a single floor in height, but its width and length is unparalleled to any building Corrin herself as seen in recent years. Its white coat of paint makes it glisten like a fresh snowstorm in the sun, a reflective diamond pool with dolphin fountains a few feet away from the door. Around it lay a botanical garden with vines and diamond shaped hedges. She laughs a little bit, thinking of how retro her place of residence outside the White House looks on the outside.

Robin looks behind her nervously, always frightened and eager to scamper back inside for the notion of what is behind them. The drive up to the house takes a good fifteen minutes up a winding cliffside with a two-way street that is against the sheer drop-off. One misstep and down one will fall, down and down they'll go till their head cracks against the asphalt and the copper fluid comes streaming out of them. The vice president worries herself constantly that sometimes the chief of the nation, if enraged enough, will dare to push a foreign ambassador or very skilled and very important businessman off the cliff and don it as an 'accident'. A complete travesty for the nation.

Corrin knows she's not kidding anyone. No one will care if she vanishes.

A few secret service agents and other staff are already bustling around the grounds for tomorrow's festivities. Corrin grapples her pockets, hoping to find the exact thing she's looking for, but sadly comes up empty. The president often packs herself a tiny flask of vodka with her on special occasions, as she found out rather quickly during her first few days in office that a little booze and alcohol helps her remember names. She has a lot of names to cycle through and not a whole lot of time to do it.

" _Great. A drunk politician..."_ Link's voice inside her head reminds her.

" _Oh, shut up you dead twat..."_ Corrin hisses to herself.

Their luggage is already inside, the driver of the limousine had it shipped earlier in the day and Corrin is ready to peel her itchy, yet tasty midnight tweed jacket and coarse pants to match off, her body longs the feeling of porcelain silk and the smooth feel of ivory. Robin is complacent with her hair down in a ponytail, a simple dress you'd see a girl wear to school, and flip flops. Until tomorrow, her profile is low and relaxed. The silverette finds it to be a much better suitable arrangement from the tiring heels and female business suits, the constant flashing of cameras, the microphones, and the stress.

Corrin claps her hands together, looking at her associate with wildfire in her eyes. "I have been looking forward to this for almost a month."

"I _have_ not," Robin corrects. "Tomorrow is going to be no different from our other dinners we've had with business executives, prime ministers, princesses and princes, and other people who'll pay a near fortune to have you sit at their table," she frowns. " _Your_ table," she corrects.

"Then you picked the wrong business if you're sick and tired of looking and playing the part." Corrin throws a little dig as she clip-clops her way up the sidewalk. "I mean, haven't you been learning from the best?" she asks, motioning to herself. Corrin can picture smug Link Collins sitting at his desk, tossing an apple in the air, and nodding at her ego.

However, the silverette is not about to be caught with her pants down and to also have her be upstaged by someone she seldom can come to like. "Except you aren't really playing that part all the well..." Robin mumbles into her neck, eyes averting conflict.

"Excuse me?" Corrin turns around not a moment to spare, eyes seizing her 'partner-in-crime' with as much passion as one having the desire to enact a game of murder. The tension is beyond palpable, it can be cut with a knife.

"I didn't say anything," Robin blinks innocently, and though she has a genuine heart, _she_ does know how the game is meant to be played, she just hates having to play it to be in politics. "It must've been the wind."

Corrin clucks her tongue, turning around and walking into the mansion. She drapes her coat off her shoulders, giving into an ever attentive agent standing near the front entrance on the inside. Robin follows after her, the two standing in the middle of the foyer. The foyer is completely empty and devoid of furniture, a chandelier swinging high above on a rafter, though it is hardly anything extravagant. Two identical paintings sit on opposite sides of the walls, and Corrin finds herself every single time she stays in the house looking at it, completely perplexed on its exact meaning. Perhaps there isn't any.

The painting in question is a piece of art that takes a few moments to look at before you understand exactly what is being looked at. In the right hand corner is a sun, at least Corrin thinks it is one, though it is dyed a deep silver, with its rays being a pernicious emerald green that reminds the president of industry, capitalism, and greed. The 'sun' is giving its rays to a field of corn, though the field of corn is nothing more than gold bars stenciled and structured to represent the bread counterpart. Robin matches Corrin's level again, looking at the painting on the left side of the wall. The right side has the painting reversed, but the message still means the same.

"Are you wondering about its existence again?" she asks.

"Yes. I don't have any idea as to what it could be. I'm not _that_ stupid, believe you me," Corrin frowns. "Despite what everyone says or thinks."

"Free silver?"

The president's face goes into deep thought over what she studied back in high school and college over the U.S history course. And all the help it did her, she smirks. "Like, Populist Party free silver? That this painting is aligned with William Jennings Bryan's _Cross of Gold_ speech? I'd say it's highly specific."

Robin shrugs. "It's just a muse. After all, I am the one who has the college major as an historian. It could be an allegory like the Wizard of Oz."

"I don't like that movie," Corrin wrinkles her nose.

"Why? Because you're just like the wizard?"

"What on Earth are you-"

"Nothing," Robin interrupts once more, striding past. Corrin's ears burn akin to that of a teapot, furious and blistering red. "It had to have been the wind again."

Corrin groans into her shoes. She wants the weekend to go as smooth as possible and having Robin over here throwing pot shots at her is generally unlike her vice president who is often sweet and well-mannered. The silverette gives a stink-eye to the painting on the wall, filing a notion inside her head that it needs to be replaced soon. Perhaps a self portrait. She can see it now. The president is drowning under halcyon lights from above on a Broadway stage, there's banners around her professing how amazing she is, and maybe she can throw in a top hat for old time's sake. Corrin smiles to herself at the thought.

She strolls after Robin into the main living room which meshes into the kitchen, stopping dead. A gentleman is standing in the center over by the counter, eyes straight dead ahead looking into her soul, unmoving, mouth agape. Corrin freezes, throwing a glance over at her secret service agents in the room who are doing absolutely nothing, and Robin who is retrieving a water bottle from the fridge.

"Psst..." Corrin whispers out of the corner of her mouth. "Robin?"

The vice president looks over. "What?"

"Why is this man just staring at me? And why is no one else doing anything about the fact some stranger is camped out in the presidential mansion?"

Robin gesticulates a glance at the man at the counter, then she bursts into laughter. "Oh, Corrin, no! That's not a stranger," then to the man she instructs, "Mac, you don't need to look so awestruck. It's only the president of the United States that you are looking at."

"Mac?" Corrin wrinkles her nose.

"The guy I hired to be a part of your secret service team!" Robin claps her hands together excitedly, water going everywhere as the cap of the bottle is off. "He's everything and more in his file."

The man, which the name is now starting to turn gears over in Corrin's head, inches near, afraid as if the silverette will combust. "Madam President, it's an honor to meet you. I've been preparing myself for days about this, but I seem to have forgotten everything since then."

Corrin is several inches taller than Mac, and it almost embarrasses her more than it should, as he is meant to be the one all flushed and red. "I- I didn't picture you to be so... so..."

"Short?" Mac supplies.

"Yeah..." then a pause. "Sorry."

"You're wearing heels. It gives you a good two and half or three inches more to your height," Robin comments, taking a swig of the water.

"Still..." Corrin trails off.

"I hope my height is not a problem!" Mac blushes profusely, and Corrin takes an immediate liking to him after knowing him for perhaps only thirty seconds. She shakes his hand eagerly, all smiles, though secretly her mind remembers that day when the folder lands on her desk with Robin's fancy manuscript all over it prescribing new changes within Corrin's inner circle, something the president shall never forget.

"Nonsense," she smiles with ease. "What job were you doing beforehand? I only hope it is a step up from whatever it was."

Mac blushes once more, and she notices the muscles rippling through his dark suit and tie, specific attire for secret service agents and others that fall into the same category. His hair is still the same military crew cut, eyes as green as the spokes and branches of an olive tree, he resembles the picture to a T, which she reckons must have not been taken so long ago. "I was a security guard at Wal-Mart. I got paid minimum wage to stop teenagers from trying to scam Redbox machines and shifty cashiers from taking singles out of the register. Hefty business, I know."

The two ladies share a laugh, Corrin's feeling fresh and nice and actually believable, almost warm enough where it is believable to herself as well. "Well, I certainly hope this is better than Wal-Mart and minimum wage," Corrin giggles. The president of the United States is giggling. Hell has frozen over, somewhere. "You know the grounds inside and out?"

"As well as I could in looking at the overview this morning," Mac answers honestly, nodding briskly. "Five bedrooms, seven bathrooms. A library, a billiards room, a dining room, two living rooms..." he ticks off of his fingers.

"Then be a good lad and show Miss Wyndel to her room. I usually allow the agents, save for the ones who don't wish to go, out to the town for drinks as long as they don't get too hammered after around ten or so."

"No can do, Madam President," the man dissuades, shaking his head in dissent.

"Why not?"

Mac's facial expression goes slack, almost stern with a mixture of dread. "I used to be an alcoholic in college, and it's the reason why I flunked out. Booze was more important to me than my grades, and it punished me for a good ten years or so. I've been two and a half years cold turkey. I haven't touched a glass of wine, beer, any kind of spirits, margarita, sangria... it has any alcoholic percentage in it, I don't drink it."

Corrin presses lightly on his arm, scooting him over towards Robin. "Then you're really going to not like me, Mr. Sarasota! I am known for being quite the heavy drinker during the time of war, or generally any time I have high stress levels. Like- like tomorrow night with the dinner party! Get going!"

Robin glares at her, then nods gently at Mac's leading arm like the gentleman he is. Corrin watches the two vanish into the mansion, and all is right in the world. She strides over to the refrigerator, knowing there's an half-full bottle of wine somewhere on one of the shelves. Her eyes seize a bottle of Presecco, wrapped and gilded in a gorgeous fluorescent shroud. Corrin drags the bottle out of the refrigerator and reaches for a glass.

She places her cell phone on the counter, turning as she pours. The see-through glass is filled up with a bubbly, sparkling pearl liquid and she takes a tart, bitter sip, sighing in exultation.

Her phone buzzes on the counter, and Corrin gives it a sideways glance. Business can wait.

It goes berserk once more, and it is enough to start the left-eye twitch that plagues the president like so. She puts the glass down and picks up her cell phone. An alert is front and center on her phone screen. Corrin goes to fill the glass up some more with another serving of Presecco, and her phone starts to sound out an alarm.

She frowns. The alarm on her phone that is going off usually is for the notification that sensitive case files detailing to the FBI, CIA, or Syrenet have been hacked into and are being glimpsed at.

Her eyes glance over the notification, and it reads Syrenet.

Curious, Corrin double-taps the notification, promptly screaming as the file being read in secrecy somewhere around the world comes full center.

The full bottle of Presecco falls out of her hands and shatters onto the floor with a mighty crash.

* * *

There is no light at all streaming through Roy Arcadia's hospital room windows save for a tiny halcyon beam falling on the bookshelf that has absolutely nothing on it, so it is a complete waste of light. The redhead groans, shuffling around on his bed, careful to not move his right leg as much for the stab wound is still healing and it needs time to get used to the stitches that kept the flesh together.

Visions and hallucinations pass over him as the medication runs its course. He is woken several times the first night in intensive care with nightmares, Link Collins's rabid face looming over his as the blonde weapons dealer threatens the Syrenet employee with a blade before diving it straight through his heart. Roy lurches forward out of a brief stasis of slumber, sweat pouring down his forehead.

The room is still black, and no one has come to visit. No one has called his bedside or nurse on call to even ask how he's doing. Ness hasn't been dropped by in the hospital room for conversation, and Roy feels lonely, the feeling festers and crawls all over his skin like a pile of scarab beetles. They pick at his flesh till there's nothing left but a rusty sack of bones and a smell that reeks of the Egyptian god Anubis.

He pats all up and down his chest to ensure he's still wholly there, and lets out a sigh. Roy is missing nearly everyone in his life. His mother, his father, Shulk, Ike, Marth, Pit, Lucas, and yes, even Snake... though he doesn't want to admit that aloud. Since not a single one of them has showed up even for a minute places a seed of despair and wretched hate inside his stomach, like twisted cow innards that give off a stench of horrific, curdled milk. No one cares about him. Shulk's eagerness for a new recruit is an act, Roy laments. Marth is a selfish guy only interested in himself, Roy snarls. Ike could care less, Roy sobs. Lucas doesn't have any idea I'm even hurt, Roy prospects. Ness is ashamed of me, Roy cries. Snake is disappointed, Roy worries.

Roy shuts his eyes, hoping to go back to sleep, when the door to his room suddenly flies open.

"Visitation hours are over! You'll have to come back tomorrow!" he hollers, almost going for the covers, scared half to death.

Light pours into the room and he gets a glimpse at another familiar redhead, though it is a face he wishes did not have to exist to any sort of capacity. Midna Nye is standing in the doorway, half her face alit by the hallway lights, the other half cast in shadow, her nose curved upward like a bleak, minimal makeup dotting her cheeks and eyes. Roy's face flushes with heat, embarrassed, and then he remembers all that happened in Boston by her presence.

The betrayal, the loss of blood, the fight, and it is partially her fault.

"What are you doing here?" he snarls.

Midna takes the brute greeting with style, shutting the door off and flickering on a lamp that Roy didn't even know existed. "Hello to you too, Mr. Bossy Pants." She swipes her hair out of her face. "I thought you needed the company."

She takes a seat by the edge of the bed, facing the wall, fiery hair still tossed over her shoulder. Roy bites down on his lip, realizing the vitriolic conduct is inappropriate and was out of hastiness. They sit in silence for a few moments, Roy's eyes readjusting to the fact there's light in his room, as he's been unable to get up out of bed and the only comfort he has had is to sit and read or watch horrible sitcoms on the TV.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes. "I have no reason to be like this."

She bites on the inside of her cheek, not looking at him. "S'okay. You have all the reason to be on edge."

The redhead girl stands up and goes to face him at the other end of the bed, hands on the black railing at the other end. Roy gets a good look at her, and she isn't all that much better than what he may have expected. Several bruises mar her neck, and her right eye is actually a black eye now, and he comes to the conclusion that the great battle between Snake and Midna against Link's goons didn't end all too well.

"You look terrible..." Roy says, sitting up. "I don't know how the fight even ended, but I guess you didn't get away without getting scratched up too."

Midna looks around the dreary and blank room. "Is this all they could give you?" she asks, completely ignoring his original question. "I'm surprised. Last time I was in the hospital, I got twenty-four hour care, a wheelchair I could use to leave the room at any given point and time, and anything I wanted to eat at whatever time I wanted it. I- I had it good," Midna recalls, smirking slightly. "I feel bad. How many days have you been here, holed up?"

"Three."

"And how much longer did the doctors say you'll stay?"

"Five more days," Roy answers. "I'll be trying to walk with my legs on Monday, but besides that, I am stuck here till I get a leave of absence. Corrin, before I got shipped into this room, said I have a two week recovery period after I get released before she may need me again."

"It's how the government works," Midna shrugs. "Besides that gloomy prison sentence, how are you holding up?"

Roy laughs nervously. "You want the truth or to sugar coat it?"

"Whatever way you want to spin it. I'm not going to think less of you."

"Horrible, then," he admits. "I have nightmares whenever I try to sleep. I can hardly feel my toes. No one has come by-"

Midna closes her eyes, her face reading as if she didn't quite understand him. "I'm sorry, say that again. _No one_ has stopped by before me?"

"No one."

"Ness, your AI Unit?" Midna frowns. The only way for Ness to show up would be someone taking the AI Unit's disk along with them.

"Nope."

"Corrin?"

"Nada."

"Not even Shulk?"

"He probably doesn't even know. If he did, he probably doesn't care."

She straights herself up somewhat, going to sit back down. "God, that- that's bad. I'm sorry, Roy. You get stuck in a horrible room, you are getting crappy food, and no one has come to visit you to see if you're doing alright. I- I... I thought I had it bad when the worst injury I suffered was a broken rib in a fight, alongside a mild concussion whilst being pampered."

He shrugs back at her, almost indifferent about the whole thing. "I've gotten used to the silence. You're the only person besides the nurse that I have seen in three days, you realize."

"No, I didn't," Midna bites down on her tongue, running a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry..." she adds, softly.

Roy gives a weak laugh, the weak laugh reminding of him of times in high school when he used to be bullied for being a ginger, or a spawn of the devil and his tears would not be wiped away by his parents as they worked late; all the boy had was his weak laugh to carry him through the day and placate that fake smile atop a bruised and battered face to make the world seem slightly askew.

"I need to stop hoping that someone I care about is going to go through the door. Is there any reason Snake hasn't stopped by? Since I am the one he placed practically in this mess, I thought it'd only be fair..."

Midna rolls her eyes. "Snake Karlo, as you know, is the director of the FBI. I doubt he has time to just idly sit by and twiddle his thumbs while getting over here to visit you. If he had the time to put it into his schedule, he would. He cares about everyone he's working with, Roy."

"I don't believe you. I really, _really_ want to, but I just don't."

That is enough for her. She stands up, hands forming claws that Midna wants to wrap around his puny throat and just squeeze. Why, oh why is Roy Arcadia's humor so dry and his opportune on life so pessimistic and defeatist when he hasn't truly lost. Midna heads for the door, one foot out. "I wanted to come in and be somewhat apologetic for what happened, though it was out of my control. And all you're going to do is sit there and defend yourself and your pathetic feelings that you're going through with bad humor and deflection. Roy, quit trying to be this all big and powerful thing... you aren't that."

She goes to leave, the redness of hair vanishing behind the wall when Roy mutters out a croak. "Why?"

Midna pauses, looking back into the room. "Why, what?" she frowns, not understanding his general question.

Roy looks at her dead in the eyes, a stare so chilling it strikes shivers up and down them. "If you were already in Boston, why did Corrin need to send me? If there was already a spy trying to tag Link in some shady dealings, what would an extra person bring to the table? You've been in the FBI for a lot longer than I have, and you've had more experience. I come in to Boston like a fish out of water. I had been inside the world of Syrenet for not even more than forty-eight hours and I'm given an assignment that I can die instantaneously in. I wasn't even given a proper Syrenetic suit to use, just a communication device to talk to Ness and Ness himself on his disk. Sure, I had a pistol, but that isn't like having the entire digital world in your head..." he looks at his scarred and bandaged hands. "It's as if Corrin wanted me to fail. Why?"

The redhead FBI agent at the door stirs uncomfortably, going back to sit. "I don't think it is a good thing to dwell on that," she pauses. "I'm sorry." Midna does not know why she's apologizing all the time. None of this hindsight is ever going to affect anything else in the long run. It all happened in the past, and the past cannot be changed.

"I know you are. But being sorry won't change anything."

Midna takes a deep, long sigh that is drawn out and her mind wanders to when she used to question the world and everything in it for how it revolved around making her miserable. "I originally had been placed in Link's group as a spy for Snake had some intel that someone within his inner circle had started a cocaine and heroin drug ring. Sure enough, one of his henchmen was doing some underground stuff and he got busted. Snake wanted to make sure that I stayed around as Corrin proposed her suspicions... though I hadn't been told of you until the day you arrived at the plant. The- the day you got caught, I mean."

"Snake didn't tell you?"

"No, and I don't even want to think about it," Midna admits, and then to herself, " _Conspiracy theories?_ "

"So, the two of them were just hoping one of us caught him in the act? I watched the entire conversation he had with that rebel woman from Oklahoma, Sheik... and you didn't do anything afterwards. Why not?"

"My instructions weren't on catching Link selling away weapons. He blew a lot of smoke at his propositions. That man never lied, that much was true," she says. "But, his offers and deals weren't always what you expected. Sometimes a man would order twenty sniper-rifles for almost a million dollars and all the guy got in return was a firecracker. Link would then eliminate that customer so the loose ends were all kept like little ducks all in a row. He's duped many people before with his transactions, but at the same time he did give fair dealings. Link- Link had no love for the rebel cause, as I am pretty sure, no love for Syrenet. He made money off of it, and that was that. I had to be wary if Link would dupe Sheik out on a business deal as the girl isn't any older than you, I'm sure, and she's reckless. He had viewed her as a liability and I just wanted to make sure."

Roy absorbs all of this information, feeling slightly better. A flare of irritation rises up in his bones. "When Link captured me, why didn't you bust in through the door and kill him right there?"

"And risk both of us being killed?" Midna cries incredulously. "Forget it! I value about my life too!"

"Why didn't you help me when I was getting tortured, like before he plunged a freaking knife into my leg!"

Midna rubs her hands on her brow. "I would've had to fight off ten guys at least by myself in close quarters, plus keep you alive. I couldn't intervene till Snake came in as extra manpower is extra manpower, whether it be one guy or a thousand soldiers. Snake is one of the best fighters this country has, and even though it was just him, he and I only sustained minor injuries while the other then guys are laying dead in cemeteries right now."

He is silent for a few moments, and then Roy licks his lips. "I- I think I need to get some rest." Roy then curls up on his side, turning his back away from Midna.

She looks at him with a sense of peculiarity, as he's an enigma she just cannot quite figure out and it is starting to bug her. Midna stands up, the bed creaking as she rises. "You- you get some rest, Roy. If I can manage it, I'll come back tomorrow at around noon. Corrin's husband, the senator from New York, Cloud Gladwell is hosting a dinner party and I've been invited to go. That isn't an invitation I can necessarily turn down if I'd like to keep my job, y'know?"

Roy doesn't respond, he just lays there in the subdued darkness and quiet, listening as Midna straightens herself up and walks away, the sound of her heels getting softer and softer till they are nothing more than a mere memory like Link's burning gaze in the back of his skull as he slowly cries himself to sleep.

All his mind can think about while he begins to drift off into a state of dreams, is her face.

Midna Nye's precious face.

He wants to kiss her, he desires to kiss her, he wanted to kiss her, he desired to kiss her.

And, just like before, Roy Arcadia does not have the ability to muster the courage to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is one of my favorite chapters. Another new character! Welcome, Mac Sarasota! I love Mac, beyond belief. Also, any new thoughts on Roy? Do you guys have any favorite characters? Interested in your thoughts... anyways, cannot wait for Chapter #13: Abolishing His System.


	13. Abolishing His System

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ike takes a mental stock, Sheik watches behind her back, and someone's system goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening you guys! Paradigm of Writing here once again with a brand new chapter for Syrenet, Chapter #13: Abolishing His System. I am really excited for this one, and I hope you all are too. Enjoy.

Ike isn't necessarily a man known for his patience. He's a guy who has a big heart, a trait clearly picked up on, but this entire being patient thing has never been a forte he excels at. Just ask Pit. The nerdy technician who wishes he was an angel knows all about Ike's frustration when the two aren't speaking to each other because Pit has gone and ticked the blue haired softie off in some way that only Pit knows how to do.

So, when Ike is sitting upstairs, doing some laundry, and switching between reading a book or eating his microwavable dinner, Pit's presence is the last thing he requested for the night and just wishes the guy could do something else. Pit's diamond eyes peek over the counter, almost resembling a child trying to steal out of the cookie jar, and it causes something awful to stir on Ike's skin like an unforgiving itch. He folds one shirt from the washer to the dryer, a simple black and blue button down that causes the burly man to think of bruises ringing his neck from attackers back down in New Orleans.

He shudders for a second, forgetting where he is, stumbling back into the table, which hits the bookcase, which hits Pit. The technician lets out a shocked cry of pain as the wooden structure bashes against his head, and the angel swears, he swears a not too kind word that Ike would most certainly chastise him for. Ike rubs his forehead complacently. He doesn't like being like Marth with PTSD and the nightmares and all that. He's supposed to be the strongest mentally willed worker in Syrenet. Everyone excuses Shulk because Shulk has been through hell like no one's business with a dead wife, child, and the other troubles plaguing his life. Ike gets no excuse.

It's probably because he refuses to tell anyone what actually goes on his life, in his mind, and that might not be the greatest thing to do in situations like these. Ike also remembers his nightmares as a teenager, from one of those hiking trips, where a great sports companion of his - Ike never called anyone on his team a 'playmate' or fellow athlete, it felt too foreign - gets ripped apart by a bear running around the woods, crazed and looking for meat. It just happens to be his best friend, right in front of him, that gets ripped to shreds with scarlet spewing everywhere. It's on Ike's skin, in his mouth, in his very soul and he chokes again.

A hum, electric and high pitched whines between his ears, breaking over his streaming thoughts, plugging the spigot, and his vision stutters as he takes a step back, bracing himself with both hands against the hood of the car. The car isn't real, it is the car Ike placed his hands on after running from the bear, the bear with a foaming maw of skin and blood and flesh and human and grizzly gore... Ike groans, setting the shirt down on the table. The metal of the hood is cool and damp and gritty with caked on dirt. He remembers it like he remembers every day, one drowned in greyscale.

When he comes to, the world is bleary, Ike thinks he had fainted that moment after recognizing the star quarterback halfway in between the bear's jaw., his tongue is swollen and dry in his mouth, his ears are muzzy, muting the already hushed stillness. Ike grits his teeth, shaking himself off from the memory, but he feels like the world is off kilter, settling at a slant. _I'm fine,_ he says out loud, to himself. _Fine,_ he repeats, clenching his fists on top of red metal, digging his knuckles into the dust. _Okay._

A curl of breath whispers across his cheek, faint. And close. Whose breath? His mother's? Corrin?

And the set of diamond eyes turns to clash with the sea of black orbs. Ike frowns.

"Pit?" he calls, half annoyed. There's no response.

Ike rolls his eyes. " _The technician is going to get everyone killed,_ " he mulls silently. " _When he doesn't watch where he points the stupid thing..._ " The bluenette Syrenet commander is extending his graces with trying to teach Pit how to fire a firearm. It is written somewhere in a dusty old book with cobwebs on it that all Syrenet employees big or small must be trained in some form of combat. Ike places the pistol in between Pit's hands and tells him to practice.

Somewhere along the line it blurs into attacking something, and attacking _anything_ is not high on Pit's list of stuff he wishes to do at his age and he panics. It reminds him of that night with Shulk, the blonde launching from his pedestal, heart racing, and he's on a rocking chair muttering unintelligible things into his knuckles. Pit has a panic attack, which is rare, and is pointing the gun at literally everything in the room other than the target. The cold muted barrel of the gun glances against the center of Ike's chest once or twice and it is the end of his rope; he's had enough.

He finally manages to calm Pit down, which is moreso a game of wrestling the gun away from the angel's iron hard grasp and gently shaking him to wake up. Pit's generally happy and benevolent blue stare is dwindled and dull, and Ike remembers the chill of the pistol against his flesh and _he_ snaps. _How could you be so stupid? You almost killed me!_ Ike screams this and more, things he wishes to not repeat, before stalking upstairs. His mind needs some calming down and it is up to the laundry to do this.

Ike is reminded of an ancient, stone oven. Or the peeling spine of some long faded book. A shuttered and final inhalation. The crumbling walls of a hospital hallway he's huddled against. It is all complacent, it is all inside his labyrinth of a mind that somehow has yet to revive itself from New Orleans. Just like Fiora's haunting resides in Detroit, Ike's settles in the French Quarter of jazz, shrimp, jambalaya, and other _le perfect_ things he is unable to understand.

 _"It's normal..."_ Corrin mutters to him one evening when he's in her office, and she's not smoking a cigarette or drinking a glass of wine. Completely rare occurrence. _"Did you injure yourself in the fall?" she inquires._

 _"No-no…. I don't think I am- h... I don't think I'm hurt..."_ Ike responds to the concerned message, and it snaps him out of whatever stupor he's stuck in. The shirt still hangs in his hands, limp and never moving, and he's sick of it all, sick of what he's become and what he's becoming, and what he's never going to be.

" _Then you shouldn't fret about it. You need to man up, Ike."_

_"And what if I never do?"_

_"Then this isn't the business for you."_

"I can't be this way forever..." Ike mutters to himself, rubbing his temples. This guy is meant to be everyone's cornerstone, but nothing is proving to work. He wants to be okay, it is what Ike wants to say in front of the mirror, or... maybe, to the vacant place beside his shoulder, in some approximation of repudiation. But if he is to say this, the hauntings inside Marth, his best friend, inside his closest Syrenet companion, will come forth in a glorious night, furious. That's what the white haired devil is there for. Ike groans, sitting down at the table. Nothing feels right. When he and Marth signed up for Syrenet together at the prospect of their high IQ's, their amazing grades and more, it is enough to make him forget that truthfully Corrin wears a mean mask, and she's good at this game, and she's injured Marth somehow. He shall injure her back, Ike growls into the cloth on the table. Marth is to injure the fair white haired devilish maiden. Maybe it is to make him feel good, him being Ike, to stop the lies and second guessing. Impressive nothings without oppressive need. Instead- in spite of, possibly just because of- He says nothing. Continues to until the question, its answers, its false rhetoric in the form of _by the ways_ and _don't leave me_ , begins to evaporate, first on his lips, then-

He glances down at his fingers and wonders why that is.

 _Where are you going?_ He asks, before he can linger on questions or, was it answers again, he can't remember asking, giving, or wishing these thoughts away. Ike misses home, a little bit of an old hickory smell in the air of Idaho, and potatoes, and pretty much those two things together. The question reminds Ike of a time when he was perhaps seven or eight, and it used to be him, his mom slowly dying of cancer, and a husky. His mom walks out of the house one evening with a sweater on, no shoes or socks in the middle of winter. Ike's head appears out from the end of the covers, as he's heard a scary noise and is hiding. The husky, which Ike names later to a simple name of Joe, is curled up on the comforter with him. His smile is wide, his hair is as dark as the surrounding room, and he whispers, "Where are you going?" to his mother.

"Out. Just... out..." his mother replies.

And out she goes, out she goes indeed. And she never comes back. Police find her body up against a road sign, frozen to death. Ike is left alone with his husky Joe, at eight years old.

Fighting is his bottle, his remedy, Ike Forgenson is no stupid alcoholic.

Bits of rubble flakes off under his weight when Ike leans to fall heavily against the table. The rough fuzz of the vine feels strangely warm, like a wiry arm or a dry tongue or-

He looks at the path. He thinks, he remembers, he wishes that it was his mother walking towards him right there in the makeshift laundry room. A sun blazes outwards into the horizon, actually it is the headlamp lights, streams of blinding light as if some holy transfiguration was coming down from the reckoning right then and there.

-Something.

And then he gets to his feet and follows. Ike doesn't actually follow, but his mind does, as the guy is entertaining the notion, and he's entertaining quite the great notion.

Over the tiny slope, the road ends. It's not an abrupt end, he thinks; where the grey, worn tarmac becomes wild, dusty, thick leaved foliage that bleeds out and backwards towards a place that smells like wet stone. But… he can not tell exactly.

His world is blurred and his vision is failing and Ike cannot stand straight.

 _The road and the end meld together_. That's a fact. Ike hums it to himself like a hymn, but he's heard kids on the playground utter it. It sounds like someone who read it from a torn page from a book without a title. The bluenette wonders what a possible title for that could be, but it isn't what he likes to think about. _Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts_. He remembers the cadence of their voice murmuring for his attention... _a smell like a cold day, a shuffle of soft soled shoes on checkered tile_. _The feeling of running the tips of his fingers over a nameplate on the side of the door because he didn't have anything to do with his hands_ ( _and he didn't want to hear and he didn't want to understand_ ), _spelling over and over..._

( _slim fingers grip unto his temples, the feeling burns and that person is screaming,_ look at me, you stupid git, do you even know my name? _A burning face places itself in front of him, fire leeching like tendrils of smoke and twisted tree branches off the black skin_ _chapped lips press into a thin line and the terribly pretty face staring down at him is haloed in watery light and his ears ache and his mouth waters and his eyes burn and he says_ of course of course I'm Ike, right, _because he does not like the expression that pretty face makes when he can't answer. He knows that, even if he doesnt always know why)_

He's lost so much time. His mind skips. Burnt out celluloid frames shuttering on a reel.

Tension winds at his temple, Ike winces, blunt teeth digging into his lip as he presses shaking fingers to his brow, beading with cold sweat.

He gasps shallowly, a noise like a dying animal grits in his chest with smoke and rattling shells.

And then-

A stale wind sweeps along his back, unbalancing him as it plucks irritably at the loose folds of his clothes and through microscopic holes under his skin, brushing away the pressure. The blonde blinks blearily.

And the answers are gone.

Ike sits down in the chair.

The vacation that he and the guys took is not enough to stir the memories away, back into some dark, unrelenting cave.

Ike sobs in the chair, the washer still thrown open, and Pit is sitting there on the floor watching it all.

All the angel can think of is how this is his fault. If he hadn't freaked out, everything would be good. Everything would be so much better than what he wanted it to be.

* * *

The stirring sounds of city life are downright annoying in Sheik Braring's ears. She doesn't particularly like people, it is a common known fact in her life and everyone who disagrees with her gets a bullet hole somewhere on their body. Often the head, sometimes the blonde is merciful and she shoots the foot or arm or eye or somewhere that isn't destined to kill.

People tell her she's quite the great shot, but she doesn't need their opinions and mind to let her know that.

Sheik shuffles her arms quietly in her coat, hands meshed together like netting and she is walking, ever so gracefully with the dexterity and poise of a grown and mature Bambi. The knife she always has against pant leg thumps up and it thumps down and it is never going to go anywhere else as long as creepy men of the male specie still exist.

Her blonde hair is down and messy, and it is a rare occurrence for her to wear her hair like that as the fishtail braid is effective and it works, and she loves using it. Sheik is tired and bored of the Midwest. It is too... brown, too rugged, and the oil city slick is desperately clinging to her skin like some toddler throwing a tantrum in the middle of the grocery store. She needs to keep her mind focused on one of two things. First thing, destroy whatever Syrenet stands for, as the blonde has the eyes like a hawk which pierce right through the television screen politicians who are all nothing more than mere puppets that do not have names. Front and center is Corrin Etch, and Corrin Etch is a beautiful lady who is downright terrible at playing her game.

Secondly, Sheik needs to shake off the trail that's following her around, almost like a deranged puppy however it isn't cute, but moreso definitely pathetic and she needs to cut the malignant cancer cells before she becomes nothing more than a walking, hissing cliché.

Though she does not particularly care for going over old memories, the constant reminding helps as her father teaches her to shoot. To punch at the right places, while her mother combs her hair and prepares her for prom, a prom she'll never go to as Sheik has shooting range practice with the best dad in the world at 7:30 and prom starts at 7:30 as well. Sheik Braring can only be in one place at any one given time.

The sun glows on the windows of the shops she is waling by in a discordant pattern of light and shadow, dust particles dancing in a frenzied motion to create small whirlwinds and pollen devils. Sheik catches a particular wisp floating by the window, ornate shapes spawning from the movement. Her mind wanders, and she's six again, and boy oh boy doesn't she wish to be six years old again. A low knock comes from the locked door opposite the windows, but this is all in her head, and the little girl turns, spinning around to see her dad, her amazing dad, a forty year-old, damn brilliant forty year-old man waving sheepishly on the other side of the door.

Sheik grimaces, closing her eyes. " _Not this one,_ " she scolds herself darkly. Her dad never smiles, her dad doesn't smile, as he's taught her to be a fighter and fighters do not smile.

She grumbles to herself, rummaging in her pocket for a cigarette. The carton is somewhere, and her fingers seize it like taking the glorious day. A lighter follows suit, a flickering orange wispy flame, bringing the pallid stick of nicotine, black death, and formaldehyde to her lips, giving a satisfying gasp as the murky white liquid and gas vanished behind her set of pale lips. She watches the falling sun sink beneath the sky in an array of wild pinks, dashing sunbursts, edgy amaranthines, and chilling cardinals. She shudders at the striking red in the sky, it resembles blood with such a strong familiarity that now she sees the youthful blonde's face in the light above, and she's falling back, against the side of one of the shops, now muttering this random person's name.

No, the name isn't random.

 _Link Collins._ The name. The guy's name of someone she did 'business' with. She's not surprised to know the fact that he's dead, but it makes her sad and stop to think about what she's sad.

She's sad, Sheik Braring is upset, purely because she did not pull the trigger on his behind beforehand, when she had the chance and could have taken over the entire factory.

"Link!" she cries out loud, before shaking his head and breathing in heavily. She isn't upset over his death, most certainly not. She's upset at the golden opportunity now taken from her fingers. Least she has President Corrin Etch to think about blowing her brains all over the wall. She places the stump of the cigarette down on the grim ground of concrete, and she lazily watches the smolders dance the night away, happy and obscene. Sheik smiles to herself, no longer feeling like she needs nicotine in her system before the day is over. It'll just lead to restless nights tossing and turning in the covers while tormenting nightmares cripple her every movement. She shuts her eyes, her hands gripping the sides of the brick building as if she'll keel over without having a surface to grasp. It torments her, it is killing er slowly, killing her softly. Why can't she get the gilded man's rippling electric blue eyes out of her head? Or the sand cropped wave of lemonade hair followed by that generous smile and abashed complexion... gah, it is tearing her apart!

Sheik continues walking, done with some of her dramatic flair, which is done in part as an act to throw the creep currently following her off his game, as he wouldn't want to mess with some psycho woman who cries and breaks down over perhaps what is known to be nothing. She passes by another closed shop, and this time it is something pretty and super girly. Like, girly to the point of choking. There's a poster in the window, and Sheik pauses to read it. She has nothing else to do other than waste her time in the great big bad city of Austin, Texas, so why not? The poster is a pretty large one if there were many comparable sizes to scrutinize. The message is written in a swooping font, like pen calligraphy, probably done by a girl's handwriting given it is so impeccably neat that even a word processor couldn't do the things this poster looked like. Evident signs of marker bubble in the spaces of the letters which are left by the swooping writing, and Sheik's eye is twitching once more as she realizes that the bubbles are that of a dyed crimson. More _freaking_ blood. Great! Just the color she is unable to get out of her head. An aquamarine border lies around the edges, and the store window holds it in front of the display, kind of abashedly, if windows could display human emotions, perhaps she should be staring at it that way instead.

There's a moment of awkward, inebriated silence, as the bustling city street goes quite for just a moment, and Sheik then turns to the poster that the window had put up against the wall all those minutes ago. She scowls. This message is absolute horse manure. _How can anyone read this and really think something like that? Must be on heroine or something, for lord's sake._ Sheik looks back at the way she just came, making sure it is empty. It is, and there's no flickering of a dead Link Collins on the cobblestones with crimson blood everywhere or her father's appraised face peeking around the corner to do one last double check as if she is sixteen again and supposed to be upset. Empty and desolate. Like Sheik's heart. The coast is clear.

Sheik rips the poster off the display window, crumbling it and ripping it apart into tiny pieces.

She throws it in the trash nearby.

The message read, _Life is full of rainbows. However, you look down. Come on in and buy one! It'll make your day so much brighter and bubblier!_

Is it even possible to buy a rainbow?

During her walk, Sheik Braring sometimes wonders why she makes friends with the people that she does. As she stands on a busy street corner, waiting impatiently for all the cars to drive by (a Porsche, a Toyota, three Honda Civics. Not just one, but three), and there's even a bench for patrons to sit down if they're tired of waiting. Sheik doesn't want to wait, as she feels that creep's eyes in the back of her head again. Her mind hates having to wait. How long could one light take, she ponders, wanting another cigarette. She's waiting for the counselor from her college days to swoop in, a man with a huge fancy plaque and PhD, a Dr. Hyrule, and then, only then does she feels very stupid for leaving her phone in her bag, a bag she now remembers forgetting, in her seat at the bar she just left, halfway across downtown. Lost, it's almost painful having to deal with the antics of the world stuck alongside her. The sidewalk is cluttered with all sorts of knick-knacks, such as stress balls with slogans that read _Just Breathe_ , or stuffed toys that look as if a slovenly, poor child in Mexico made them with paperclips for fingers. A couple of glow sticks sit in a novelty coffee mug with the words _Happy Birthday, Son_ strewn across it. Her mind wants to believe that some toy store exploded while waiting for the 'you may walk now', and no one has picked up the mess. It takes all of Sheik's will to not, and it's killing her just like not having her phone, to get up and crack one, turn the lights off, and have a rave party in the middle of the street with glow sticks and loud music.

Problem is, she needs a phone. This sucks.

She's having trouble deciding if she should look up at the clouds and make stories out of the etchings she sees in the plaster or to scowl at the man stalking her, of one of her old college clients that somehow has her phone number and address, a sleazy looking guy with greased back black oily hair that makes Sheik want to hurl. Her profession was simplistic and easy. It didn't require a lot of brain power. Sheik Braring used to be the girl who'd flirt with you before stealing your wallet and knock you out while doing it. Her employer let her keep half the money she stole, until he tried placing his hands somewhere they shouldn't have gone and she shoots him twelve times in the chest for good measure.

It makes Sheik reminisce when she was younger. Her mind wanders and it settles down on a year that people generally don't think about. Seventeen. At seventeen, Sheik has dealt with many things, some of them good, some of them bad, but she isn't at the age at being able to discern them from each other. She isn't sure whether or not to put her father and her mother on the good or bad list. It'll come to her eventually. Sheik swipes some of her blonde hair behind her head and sighs. This light seems to be starting much later than usual... it's taking so long for the red circle to come that she wants to bury her face in the bench chair thing and suffocate.

It sounds kind of difficult. Sheik has literally no idea how to suffocate on metal.

Another rouse of silence passes between them; them is her and the road. Sheik catches himself staring, staring far away at this couple walking hand in hand with a stroller in between them, but goodness this is wrong as Sheik is staring at strangers and really wanting what they have. There's a code you don't cross, and Sheik is super close to crossing it so she settles to notice on the guy only, the code you don't cross is prevalent. You never envy a man, his woman, and their children. She learned that while pickpocketing. It could've led to some super damaging consequences. She very well knows this, that staring is a form of lust, but she still does it anyways. This man, though she doesn't know his name, is down right gorgeous, stunning in every inch and curve. Pasty white skin that glistens like reflective glass, two soft, sweet diamond eyes with dark, radiating auburn hair acting as the backdrop. His body is slim, a girl's dream body, because he is perfectly outlined like blowing glass, with curves that accentuate his physique so well. This gentleman has to know he's gorgeous, but for once in her life, Sheik bites down on her tongue, she tries not to say anything about it to anyone. She knows that the man is feeling eyes on the back of his head, someone is staring at him again... fifteenth time this morning, but all she can do is shrug and say it's because of hormones. To break the silence, a car decides to speed by with rap music blaring out of the speakers, and it scares Sheik half to death, snapping her out of her wits faster than actual fingers snapping together.

The sun is slowly going down, the dimming rays are lights that give off amorous shadows on the chipped and tarnished asphalt of Sheik's road as the haggard blonde walks across the tarmac to the other side of the street. It really isn't _her_ road of course. It belongs to the city of Austin. But, she likes to entertain the notion. She rubs her face a few times because she's so damn tired of not being able to sleep. Last night, she dreamt of him. Of her father. She dreamed about the man's blue camping backpack, a common sight on their many camping trips, his nice smile, his gentle and soft hands when he'd brush the tears away from another boyfriend who broke her heart. Her dad is an amazing dad, not because he sympathized, but because he empathized and made it up with a movie night or making her dinner when her mother would refuse to see her. And it is killing her that this is how she's remembering the dead. Well, her dad really isn't dead.

He's dead to her, though. Sheik Braring never understands the fact that her dad is an abusive son-of-a-gun, but not on purpose. Her dad, her father, her mom, her mother... the two go through some rough financial times where there's the breaking of glass and dollar bills and relationships. Sheik is punched across the jaw accidentally when her father aims for the TV screen. She is clawing at the locked bathroom door where she hears her dad throwing her mother's stuff all across the floor, muttering and hollering out obscenities.

Of wishing she could've spent one last minute with him before the man died. Again, in her heart only, nowhere else is her father actually dead. Sheik remembers it as if it was yesterday, the lawyer throws his briefcase on his desk, knocking over a container holding pencils and highlighters which tumble to the floor in a tumultuous crash. He winces, running a hand through his hair. He does not need this so early in the morning, the lawyer needs things to go perfectly. Sheik reaches down to pick them up but decides against it. The lawyer will just knock them over again someday. He takes a moment to appreciate the sunrise, the halcyon streams of light shooting out in various directions and it rests on him, giving a moment of calm.

It is that day when Sheik is given the knowledge her parents are divorcing, but plan on remarrying just a few years later down the road. The separation is necessary.

She is surprised, at thirteen that of all the students who have excuses to leave and take a few days, it should be her. But she's not doing that. Sheik Braring is learning an Algebra I concept on quadratics, a course she doesn't even understand, because she feels compelled to do so. It's the right thing to do, to not bail out on the few friends who show up every period for her because they are supposed to. That's how it is meant to be done, and it is rightfully so.

Sheik leans into the window of her car when she manages to get it after getting her license. Her tears are silent up against the cold glass, pressing her forehead against the cool glass while her breath mists up the reflective surface. She runs a few fingers down it, her father's reflection peering out in the horizon. Sheik hasn't slept. She needs sleep. She is so invested in the sunset that she doesn't hear a knock from the other side of her car. Sheik glances over, and a note is tossed in by some guy. A parking ticket. Fancy manuscript says the ticket is from some slimy jerk she'll never know the name of. The meter man's cheery face is a even brighter than usual, but a frown is plastered on his face as he takes in his new victim's dismayed and transfixed state. He tries for the handle, surprised somewhat to see it open. Sheik bites out a curse at him, and the guy who gives parking tickets runs away.

Sheik crosses the street, though she's repeating actions and heads for the parking garage.

The blonde rebel, the one who has caused the nation a whole lot of turmoil, stops her breathing momentarily. This got serious too fast. She bites down on her lip, looking out into the horizon. Sheik is afraid to say that she cares for her father's wellbeing a little bit too much in a non healthy way. The reason why she continues to drink Red Bull and stay up is because she's thinking of the man who's done so much for her and how he's doing, that's what he does and will continue to do as long as things continue going the way they will. How can he just spurt things out like that? Issue is, you can't. You can't just do things like that. It's not healthy.

Something flickers over Sheik's face and she grips the corner of the entrance to the parking garage. The sound of footfall stills, her blood runs cold. She can see the resemblance in her mother to her father, and when there's a mirror, she sees it herself with how she looks like her parents. It is in the hook of the nose, the slightly tilted smile, and now there is blood running down her face in a hallucination. Sheik goes completely white, and she turns around, going to see if the person pausing is a ghost, and not someone real. Sheik sighs, grabbing a new cigarette from the carton, but she does not withdraw her lighter. She is sky writing out the word _Hamlet_ , in the bright red flame, it is like a school board marker almost. She blanches, and 'erases' that, writing it out in blue instead, as the read is from memories she wants banished. Something her father said earlier passes over her. " _Blue is a sympathetic color, like the ocean_." Again, bull.

Sheik is unsure of whether or not to believe him. She runs through the cycle of grief over in her head. This woman is at the anger stage now, but she simply nods her head and dabs at her eyes, trying to shed a few tears. Tears help. They help _good_. Before she can speak again, to say a choked out thank you at the sky to her father, a few bits and pieces of gravel snap out of place, dancing around on the street. Someone on the other side of the stone pillar curses, a familiar voice that brings back too many memories to Sheik's mind, and she quickens her pace further into the dark parking garage. All the muscles in her body tense, like someone is winding up a spring and about to let it loose. She could pounce on him right then and there. Her mind is debating it. It wouldn't be the right thing to do, with her father sitting there and all in her memories, as it is a rude thing to act volatile in front of relatives, but she's just wanting to get everything out in the open, done in a way that it'll hurt beyond what this idiot would be normally expecting.

In those few seconds, each offended party takes a minute to scrutinize each other. Done so with a magnifying glass that shows each flaw in a highlighted color. Sheik sees a man who's lost hope, the guy is thin, and for a moment she actually feels kind of sympathetic, a twinge of remorse flaring up in her heart before it is shut down with a resolving scowl. He looks over at her and sees a woman who despite all she's been through, seems to be very empowered. She believes he's old. He believes she's brave. Each little nitpick builds up a wall that tears itself down the moment the brunette decides to open her mouth. Sheik closes her eyes and the guy vanishes. Did he even exist?

Her thoughts trail off, and for a minute in time, everything freezes as if it had been trapped in amber. Sheik Braring. Mr. Braring. Mrs. Braring. Solace. Both in their twenties, and the former had just gotten married. The two met at a bar, entirely accidental. Back in the day when Mr. Braring used to drink heavily, instead of turning for the noose or knife or pill. He kisses her accidentally, and that part was the only thing done without a true purpose. She is married, and she knew this, while she let him unbutton her dress in a motel bedroom. They had sex that very night on a hampered bed with mice droppings near the floor and mildew stains on the ceiling. They had a cheating relationship for three and a half months, until it is clear Mrs. Braring is starting to show signs of a pregnancy, and then Mr. Braring gets around to ask her the question. When was the last time she had a period?

It all comes crashing down. Mr. Braring just had started teaching, so he bails. He leaves Mrs. Braring one evening when they're standing in front of the hospital. It is pouring, and she calls out his name, but he refuses to turn around and look at her. Never mind her. Doing this to him and everything. She gave birth to a boy and named him something that Sheik forgets to ask. Mr. Braring gets a chance to see him, once, which he takes up, but it was the very last time he ever saw Mrs. Braring, around seven years ago, until he gets back in her lives, and soon Sheik Braring comes out of her mother's womb, bloodied and crying and being a baby.

Everything has gone back to the messed up way it was.

Sheik reaches her car, flings open the door handle, and steps inside. She's never visiting Austin, Texas ever again.

It awakens too many scary memories.

* * *

Shulk runs a hand through his hair, the cellphone against his neck cold and dulling him of all senses. "Are you sure, Corrin? I- I highly doubt this was on purpose..."

"Yes! It matters a whole lot!" Corrin's shrill and sharp voice punctures the air and he's wincing, the blonde recoils from the loudness currently deafening his ear. Corrin continues to preach her case, and Shulk sighs. He cannot simply go and do what she's demanding, no matter how important it is for Syrenet or the country or her chance at being reelected or whatever. "And who cares if it was on purpose or not! He looked at an illegal document, Shulk!"

"I can't do it!" he snaps. "Roy's going to be beyond upset at me if he finds out."

"What Roy doesn't know, won't hurt him," Corrin points out.

"How is he not going to know that his AI unit has been eradicated?"

"We can lie..." Shulk can sense the president smirking wherever she is located.

"Lying doesn't solve all of your problems."

"Do I need someone else to do this job? Are you getting sensible in your old age, Shulk?"

"No, Madam President..."

He hangs up. Shulk Roberts is not in the mood to hear his boss say those things currently, and he's deciding to put a stop to it. The elevator finishes its slow and dreary trek down to the lower floors of Syrenet headquarters. The party, the very important business party and dinner that he is somehow invited to, is starting tomorrow in exactly twenty-four hours. Yet, here he is doing Corrin Etch's dirty work.

The call rouses him up from a pretty good eleven hour slumber as Shulk did not go to bed last night because he's up playing poker with Marth and watching Friends reruns with Pit, and throwing darts with Ike, and saying a fairytale to Lucas because the AI Unit requests he do this so he's somewhat acting like the son Shulk's never had.

Lucas's words have a detrimental impact on Shulk, and it brings him quite close to tears.

Fiora's visiting his dreams once again, and this time the dream is somewhat terrible and terrifying, the other half soothing and gentle and the things Shulk loves about her. However, Shulk is dreaming, standing up, swaying ever so slightly that he's off kilter and he's beyond bothered.

They've liked each other for too long to never intimately share a connection... seemed as if everyone picked up on that but them in the heat of things. It took a drunk party in Fiora's house for him to even yell it out, and she has to yell back in terror half because she wants to live, half because she truly loves the man in front of her; it is a war on both sides, how would you decide what was right to say? The war is the fact that there are government agents pounding down on the door because they request the two show up for some meeting with the freaking senator of New York and his wife for a job prospect that leaves Shulk wounded and Fiora dead.

He's smiling when they break apart from their second kiss after they agreed to date, his glasses askew on the curve of his nose, blonde hair tousled, and that grin reminds her of someone with darker hair, darker eyes, darker intentions... and she freezes. Fiora's skin is crawling with festering diseases, namely paranoia and nightmares, a constant ticking of a time bomb that'll go off whenever it feels like it.

Shulk frowns, there is a change in their room, a little dirty apartment with hardly enough breathing room, his hands are out hovering above her shoulders. _"You okay?"_ _he asks._

She blinks, Fiora has to blink several times before she can respond, and the syllables approach her throat in a yell but are blockaded by regret. If she mentions her, that _Corrin Etch_ , it'll get a ball rolling, it'll cause _him_ to lose his mind, how he punched her, that pallid haired snake when Shulk found out his wife was dead, how he couldn't save her, his Fiora... perhaps even loved her at one point. But it is all a dream, a nightmare, and Fiora's face is hopeless. _"Y'know, her. You reminded me of her, with the smile. She's telling me it is for the greater good of Syrenet that I go, but I have this child and..."_

Eyes narrow threateningly. Shulk backs away from her. _"I thought we got away from that. The consolers and the therapists..."_

" _Everyone slips,"_ Fiora chides admonishingly, turning away from him. " _Sh_ _e punctured us. Syrenet punctured our innocence. Here we all, all eight of us sitting around because we're terrified. We can go see however many specialists you want to Shulk, but we won't be able to forget what happened. No matter how many people soothe us with gentle and kind words will alleviate the fear any less than it already is brimming at. In all fairness, I sort of don't want to forget-"_

Shulk throws his hands up in the air, swearing ( _seriously_ , Fiora, are you serious with me here?), and he's barreling past her to the front door of the apartment, he opens it, slams it, his wave of lemonade hair is gone down the hall drowning in greyscale. She has a hand to her mouth, biting down on her palm to subdue a scream of fury as she crumbles to her knees.

This is what she mentioned, they're punctured, like a balloon and constantly air is leaking so they cannot be rebuilt back together.

Shulk comes back to his nightmare, his standing nightmare a completely changed person.

The night is quiet, Fiora deduces quietly to herself, as she leans over the balcony railing, examining the street down below with her besetting sin of curiosity. Her phone has been going off all night with apologetic texts from Shulk, enticing messages from Ike, and one idiotic dark haired male with a new number who felt graced by some higher up power to let her know that her lover is drunk. Drunk as a skunk type of drunk, with slurred speech and stumbled steps and definite mood swings.

She grips her phone tighter and the slamming of the door. "I'm home!" Shulk announces as if the door slamming was not enough to alert everyone of his presence. His voice slurs together like a rewound tape or old record player, the speed fifty times faster so the noise is dissonant and painful. Shulk covers her ears up. The harsh noise reminds her of people's anguished cries, of gunshots, saws, someone's anguished (albeit fake) screams, and moreso, her pain that will not go away.

 _"Where- where the- where are you?"_ Shulk yells out harshly, stumbling around. There's a resounding crack, Shulk rammed his fist against the sliding glass door, there is a _clink clank_ noise as shards of glass fall to the balcony, and he enters dangerously through the newly made opening onto the terrace. With the bright lights of neon signs that remind him of day-glow and prohibition, he can see somewhat better, and there's Fiora, looking beautiful, cowering away from him. _Cowering_.

 _"Any- anything to say to me?"_ she catches off a sob, looking up slowly. _"You were gone almost the entire night. Midnight is in like an hour."_

 _"I let the hurt go away,"_ Shulk shamefully admits, drifting off to the railing.

 _"Heard from you-know-who that you punched her,"_ Fiora says, though it is almost accusingly said, like nails down a chalkboard type of accusing. " _You punched Corrin the face. You punched our president. In. The. Face!"_

Shulk's jaw locks again, the clenching of his fingers against the railing suggests violent tendencies approaching, but he simmers to a boiling pot of water cooking raw carrots. _"She got in the way again. Perhaps wanted to ruin us once more."_

_"You were the one who texted her, Shulk. I know you wanted to contact Marth, but in your rage you selected Corrin's number-"_

He's up and pointing a sharp finger in her face, stern, angry, drunk. _"Don't mention her to me! She's a disease."_

 _"Like my paranoia?"_ Fiora lets a single tear fall down her face. _"Like my memory?"_

Shulk feigns back, shocked. _"I-"_

 _"My paranoia of everything in the world is a disease, Shulk. You-"_ she stops, carefully considering her words. _"Corrin started the problem, she's the root of it all,"_ she breaths heavily, but there's more, she's drawing back, and she's drawing back on purpose. _"I can't say it."_

He leans down, places a hand under her chin, he kisses her softly on the lips, and Shulk is back to smiling. _"You can tell me whatever you want."_

Fiora swallows, it is a swallow of dire consequence. He has given her permission, so she speaks. _"Corrin started the problem. You're perpetuating it."_

Her gaze falls, she can no longer look at him. Hurt spreads across his face, almost painstakingly obvious that he's devastated to hear such... such _bull_ on her behalf. Shulk begins to yell so belligerently that pigeons fly away from their coops, but Fiora cannot listen to him now. She wants sleep, she wants a nap. She wants to read over the messages sent from Ike on he and his girlfriend's trip to the Bahamas. _Something_ happy for a change, not the man she loves who is so dead set on trying to patch up the balloon that is punctured beyond belief. Shulk is crying, he is crying. ( _Come back to me, Fiora, please! Don't do this to me! Explain!_ ) Fiora decides, no, she _chooses_ to ignore him.

She had been right all along, she is still right. Corrin hurt them, hurt them in unimaginable ways, but there's an underlying issue there. She helped them too, revealed that life (though expected) won't be easy, their innocence had been punctured, there were dark things out there and all Shulk wanted, _wants_ , to do, is forget those dark things. That they don't exist. That they can't harm her, or their love.

Fiora hugs herself tight, closing her bedroom door as Shulk's sobs wail louder than an orchestra at the Sydney Concert Hall.

"Corrin _started the problem. You're perpetuating it_."

She, perhaps, in that moment, broke Shulk's innocence again. She's a new Corrin to him.

Not like she can take back what she said, right?

...

And just like that Shulk is broken out of whatever random stupor he had been stuck in. His hands are cold and foreign around the door handle to the sleeping quarters of the headquarters. A single disk is placed in the center of the table, and he's pulling out the gun from his pocket, stampeding over to it.

"For Fiora," he mutters. He pulls the trigger. "For Corrin!"

Somewhere, Ness's circle goes dark, and the AI Unit is trapped in an eternal darkness he'll never escape from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, another character bites the dust. Goodbye Ness, it was nice having you... who's in the wrong now? Is it Ness? Is it Shulk? Is it Corrin? As usual, interested in your thoughts. Cannot wait for Chapter #14: Damaged Dinner, perhaps my favorite chapter of Arc #2. See you all soon!


	14. Damaged Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A party is hosted, and within it: Shulk encounters the redhead, the viper talks to the canary, hearts collide, and Corrin makes an announcement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening ladies and gentlemen! It's Paradigm of Writing with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, Chapter #14: Damaged Dinner. I am really, really excited for this one... it's the longest chapter of the story, so far. There are many character interactions in this one. Enjoy!

To say that Shulk hates crowds is an understatement. Shulk loathes crowds with as much reason one hates clowns or dying or something tragic or other. The personal business attire is also not something that fits in with his... 'style', as actually the blonde has no idea to describe how he presents himself other than the typical word, and so this fancy, ornate party does not sit well on his skin.

He's huddled over in the back corner of the living room, where everything is just too much white, too much of a moving blizzard or a hazy cup of vodka, where the blending of all colors causes him to have a headache. Shulk longs to be talking to Lucas back at headquarters, the ringing of the gunshot from earlier still echoing around in his head. The AI Unit must be devastated, which Shulk concludes sadly to himself whilst hanging on the fringes of the social buzz. He's never been particularly close to Ness, so having done the professional job required by Corrin is nothing that matters _that_ much to him. What he's fearing, with good reason, is Roy's reaction, and the presumable consequences when Roy discovers who led out the devious 'interrogation'.

His eyes catch hers across the room, and though Shulk tries recalling the woman's name that he's been eying for the past half hour with glasses of Merlot and Chardon and champagne and even draft beers, it isn't coming to him quite fast enough. She slinks over to him, trailing an ever translucent sea foam green dress that hugs her delicate curves. Shulk is happy his wife is dead, or else he'd be rotting in the everlasting furnace for smiling the way he does. The dress combats nicely with the woman's electrifying and heart warming red hair, and then Shulk's brain connects the dots, now regretting even looking at the viper he calls a woman.

"I can tell that this party is not leaving you in the best of moods..." the woman whispers close to him, pulling Shulk out of his nook and cranny, which causes the man to make a sound replicating that of a dying dog. He's clinging to the corner almost in a cartoonish manner, drawing a few giggles, laughs, and oddball stares, but the woman is persistent and the two start to trail around the house.

"And I wonder how you came to that conclusion," Shulk snaps back wittily, downing the drink.

She eyes him with a peculiar competence that freaks him for a split second until her head is set dead ahead at the linoleum floors and elegant paintings dotting the walls. "Do you end every sarcastic comment with a drink?" Her eyes light up like fireflies, and Shulk is enthralled, almost bad enough to where he's unable to concentrate.

"N- no..." he stutters.

"Seems like you do," the woman says, eyes smirking, just like her face.

He folds his arms over his chest, noticeably setting his drink down on the bookshelf that the two are near. It is going to sit there like an insatiable itch on the back of his neck, where his hands will want that drink, they will bemoan for the glass, the craving of the murky wine shall become too great for him to handle... and dammit, he's going to look like the biggest idiot ever in front of the prettiest woman he's seen all night around the fake and phonies atop the fake and phonies. "I'm- I'm sorry, but have we met? I'm pretty sure I'd remember knowing someone like you with that attitude." Shulk's heart twinges some at the remembrance of Fiora, the perfect syrupy sugar sweet balance to the bitter tartness that is the blonde Mr. Roberts.

The woman who actually does not have a drink in her hands, being one of the seldom ones, makes a facial expression that suggests she wants a drink very heavily. "With all the news going around D.C about what happened in Boston, I'm surprised that you don't know who I am. Your protégé currently in the hospital sure knows _who_ I am, though."

Shulk looks at the woman warily. His hand curls around the glass, but it isn't so he can use it to drink. It's a weapon if he smashes it against her head hard enough, though that'll ruin the party and everyone's bubbly persona will fade underneath crimson pools, jagged glass, and hair kissed by fire. "You're Midna Nye, aren't you? Snake's mole in the Collins Arms Dealer corporation..."

Midna laughs, her vibrant and auburn hair highlighting along the walls. "The one and only, Mr. Roberts," she winks at him, a blush creeping up on his cheeks. "Or is Shulk satisfactory?"

"You can call me anything you deem alright."

"Shulk it is then."

"I'm _so_ glad you solved that little hiccup right there."

"And now you're going to take a drink!" Midna exclaims happily.

He takes a drink, which then causes him to stomp his foot, as son of a gun. She is right about his drinking nuances and it's bothering him far more than it should be. Shulk scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly, seeing as there is no way around this elephant in the room. Ike's words come back to haunt him, and the description and details of what happened in Boston to the new recruit are sending images spiraling into and out of his vision. Roy huddled over a pool of blood. Link's ghoulish, empty diamond eyed stare from afar. Midna's hair and bones scattered to the wind. Snake's voice breaking against a crumpled wall... Shulk shudders, luckily Midna having been preoccupied with the moon currently shining outside in the darkening sky.

She beckons him to follow her back into the main living room where the other party guests were still mingling, the chefs in the kitchen nearly finished with the dinner that would be to feed almost forty people. The extra addition of loud banter and belligerent noise helps the two talk about whatever they wish with little prying eyes and ears.

Midna motions at Shulk's glass, the blonde obliging and handing her the drink. She takes a sip, then shrugs, and downs the rest despite the blonde's half-hearted protests. Shulk wants to be able to drive back to Syrenet headquarters with the morning come and being drunk is no way at easily accomplishing that task. Midna's lighthearted gaze that she's been wearing the entire night hardens into something fierce, chills enveloping Shulk's spine. "I spoke to Roy at the hospital two days ago."

"You did?" Shulk's eyes widen imperceptibly, blue irises flaring with hope. "How is he?" he prods when Midna does not divulge any further statements.

"Do you wish to have the good or the bad first?"

"I'm still going to feel terrible knowing there's a bad option, so it doesn't matter."

The redhead straightens Shulk's tie expertly, whilst leaning inward to whisper in his ear so a lady entering through the doorway with too _many_ jewels hanging around her neck does not here the transaction of events happening four feet away from her. "Good news is that Roy is alive and recovering with the stitches from the wound in his leg. Bad news... he reeks of depression."

Shulk snorts, and it isn't a sign that he doesn't care, the man is purely and effortlessly surprised. "Being depressed is one of the criteria that gets you placed into the Syrenet problem. The only person who is underneath the roof that I know of who does not struggle with depression is my AI Unit, Lucas, who's always blissfully happy despite there being many reasons not to be so jolly."

Midna sighs, running a hand through her hair. No one ever truly understands what she's saying, the redhead feels while Shulk's true avoidance of the statement takes hold of her perceptibility. Link Collins didn't listen to her when she advised him to drop the gun, and now there's a bullet hole in that man's forehead, covered in soot at a cemetery where he's buried six feet deep. Her own father does not listen to her when she says that there's a gas leak that she can smell, but he deduces it to being nothing more than the cooked scent of bacon from several hours ago for breakfast. She remembers the feelings of flame lacerating her skin as the house explodes mere moments after she opens her car door to get to work.

"No, Shulk, I am not simply referring to depression all 'Syrenet' employees must have," she throws her hands up at waist level, indicating there's more behind her words. "He's depressed as he believes everyone is disappointed in him. No one's stopped by to visit him except for me, and he gets out of the stupid hospital in less than 48 hours. I'm the only person he's seen since last weekend's admittance, and I'd say that's quite a terrible situation to be in if you ask me."

He stirs at these words, blanching visibly. Midna hands him back his drink, winking, and off she goes into the crowd, blending amidst the gathered where the last Shulk sees of her is the blurred tornado of ripe ruby red hair, a frolic dancing against a man's sheer black suit, and she's gone. Shulk squeezes his eyes shut, unsure whether or not to relegate the... 'encounter' he had with her be a simple hallucination, or everyone is playing him up as if he's some crazy man.

Someone else's presence is registered by Shulk's side, and when the hand clamps down on his shoulder, he yelps, the blonde's drink going everywhere. Shulk's heartbeat slows down to regular speed after a few moments, the breathing taken right out of him with his scream. A hearty chuckle fills the void of silence from Shulk's cry of terror, and it is a sound that is all too familiar to her ears. He turns and his terrified expression morphs into a one of pure delight.

"If I hadn't been scared out of my wits just now, I would've hugged you!" Shulk greets, throwing his arms out to envelop the stranger in a hug.

The stranger is FBI director Snake Karlo, the man looking completely different from when Roy had seen him last in Boston a few days ago. Snake isn't wearing a typical dark sort of suit, but rather something a little bit lighter, a coarser brown, almost like oak or mahogany. His beard is gone, leaving behind a pale face that has seen too many winters and battles and too much blood. An irreplaceable glow sits in his eyes that is warm and welcoming. He pats Shulk on the back, a bottle of Coolers Light resting in his lax grip.

Snake tips his bottle across the living room of crowded men and women to Midna, who is now by the bar chatting up this gentleman that Shulk has never seen before. Her hair is as vibrant as ever, looking brighter and stronger than some of the lights flickering on and off in the house. "I take it that you've met the little starlet. Midna is... well, she's quite the handful."

"That she is," Shulk laughs with the man. He hasn't seen the FBI director in quite some time, the last the blonde recalls even talking with the man was about a year ago for some Syrenet intelligence conference that generally had most of the Washington D.C national security personnel in the room. The last time the two fought together side-by-side was in Tahiti, the summer of 2088, when Fiora had first come to Shulk with the idea in her head about becoming a surrogate, but Shulk shoots in down as it is way too much money, and the president needs him alongside the FBI to kill some rugged group of assassins. His expression sobers at the thought, and he looks at Snake, realizing that if he apologizes to Midna about Boston, he also needs to apologize to the man who coordinated the entire operation. "Snake, I- I gotta say thank you."

"For what?" Snake lifts an eyebrow up. The man never expects people to compliment him on his work. He's another trained soldier, a simple peon in the world of the United States and its policies. He has no desire for global recognition, or apparently even local praise as the tips of his ears flush a putrid scarlet in slight embarrassment. "I can't imagine I've done anything-"

"Boston," the Alpha commander of Syrenet elaborates, and it is the one word that gets Snake to dip his head low in a nod, lips pursed, and eerily calm. "For saving Roy and killing that wicked two timing double crosser."

Snake looks back up at Shulk and there's the readable emotion of sadness reflecting back at the blonde. "It's nothing to congratulate me or thank me about, Shulk. I was doing what I do in the line of work and there's all it is to it. That reminds me, I need to go and see how the boy is doing after all. I only got a word in before he had been whisked away on a helicopter to the hospital. I sustained nothing more than a bullet hole to the hip, and even then it only grazed me. He got... he got the worst end of the stick, that's for sure."

The blonde starts to get uncomfortable with all this war talk, especially as he's a close and comforting man of many tastes, and sometimes war is not one of the conversations he likes discussing. Shulk rubs his shoulder innocuously, taking a sip. He wants to search out in the vast unknown for a topic that is far more enjoyable and one that can lighten his mood. He scans over the crowd, about twenty to twenty-five men and women collected in the space between the couch and kitchen counter. He realizes that there are plenty of people in the room he does not know. Shulk hasn't been invited to too many parties at his forty year-old age.

Shulk takes a sip of his drink, leaning back up against the wall. "So, how many parties of Corrin's have you been to?" he asks.

Snake laughs, making a wry smile. "Too many. Way too many," he smiles. That is true. It feels like the white haired maiden is dragging the man everywhere she goes, even when it has nothing to _do_ with him, as it should, and there's all this applause, and the noise gets louder and louder and louder and louder and louder and louder and- "Corrin wants me to come with her all the time, and I think it's purely because she wants someone's company that she can stand. From what I know, Robin and her do not get along all the time, but I hardly know the reason why."

"Is there anyone here that you don't know?"

"Oh, there's plenty. I'd like to keep it that way," Snake chuckles. He downs a sip of the beer. "What I like doing when I'm bored at these really soporific events, in which they really are just tandems of high class socialites discussing lord knows what, is to look at someone I don't know and try and guess how they were allowed to show up."

"Oh?" Shulk raises an eyebrow. That seems like quite the harmless game, a rather fun game if anyone was to ask him. "Anyone here you wish to... scrutinize?"

"How about... her?" Snake says, pointing.

Shulk follows his gaze and the two of them are looking at a middle aged woman in the middle of the room, talking to a guy that the blonde thinks is a member of the EPA, but he isn't quite sure. What is probably giving the gentleman she is talking to a heart attack is the poor raven practically hanging around her neck, with plucked midnight feathers poking from the shoulders of her putrid and sickening yellow vomit dress that makes the FBI director purely want to hurl while looking at it. A clunky ring of topaz sits on her right hand at the wrong finger, resting against her pointer knuckle, bouncing and dipping constantly with her every movement. She's a hand talker, as she is probably telling whimsical tales of her youth to the presumable EPA agent that is no older than thirty, and she has to be in her near seventies.

"What do you think her story is, then?"

Snake rubs his chin, looking thoughtfully, a smile resting on his lips. "I'm guessing her name is Dolores or something completely stereotypical like a Marta. She's in her mid-seventies give or take. This... Marta, knows Corrin because she accidentally bumped into her at the airport, and she spills her coffee all over the president and is fearing for her life. She begs and begs for some forgiveness, but Corrin isn't a killing woman over coffee and invites her to the next gala or gathering she is hosting. Marta, wanting to impress Corrin, wears the best outfit she has in her closet, and her best jewels. I hardly believe the president will be... blown away by this spectacle."

The blonde's gaze follows over to Midna and the guy who's a complete stranger to him, laughing at the redhead's facial expression when she catches mere glimpses of this woman. "I think your fellow partner in crime is getting quite the eyeful."

"Oh, is she now?" Snake jokes back with him, downing the rest of his beer.

In fact, Midna is indeed having the time of her life with quite the eyeful of not only the crazy dressed woman in the center of the living room, but with the gentleman she is talking to, a Mr. Mac Sarasota. She loves his name, loves it perhaps too much and that's something she hopes to all things mighty won't be an issue in the coming months. She appreciates the way his eyes light up just enough to be showing off true emotion, but done well enough that you'll never know what he's truly thinking. Mac currently is downing a water bottle while everyone around him is getting drunk up a storm to the ever high heaven, and she's prodding around like a hyena sniffing a cactus.

"Why aren't you drinking?" she asks in between a sip of some new fancy wine she finds on the counter near the refrigerator. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Shulk and Snake chattering away like old time college buddies, which causes the redhead to roll her eyes. The only person she _actually_ knows in the entire room is Snake, and she's perfectly okay with it. However, her new mission since nothing has been assigned is to get to know the ever curious and ever so handsome Mac Sarasota. Why? Because Midna Nye can.

Mac grimaces slightly, shrugging his shoulders. "It's just not my style, I suppose. It used to be, though."

"Oh? And what drink did a man such as yourself indulge himself with?"

He stretches his arms wide, yawning as if the party is boring. Midna loves hanging on the outskirts of the carpeted living room floor and just catching all the random buzz that flits and floats about with the denizens of Corrin and Cloud's cliffside mansion. "The classic Jack and Coke, ma'am."

Midna crinkles her nose. "Ma'am?"

All the color in Mac's face drains, and he's throwing his arms out and shaking his hands back and forth at her so she spares his life. "Sorry! It's just an old habit I get! I- I... I'm sorry I didn't mean to make you sound as if you're-"

"Relax, Mac. I'm just busting your chops," the redhead places a comforting hand on his right shoulder, the two talking from across one of the kitchen counters. "I am hardly that old to be called ma'am, though, and if you call me it again I'll castrate you."

The secret service agent laughs nervously, pulling at the collar of his dress shirt and then straightens his tie, face all flushed out. He has never found a woman so attractive in his life, her dark and robust skin color, perhaps coupled with a glorious tan sending rivets of shock up and down his spine, walking him up. Mac hopes his hair looks somewhat decent as he had to chase a little toddler around the premises earlier in the day when one of the patrons brought their adopted daughter he had wanted from Guatemala. She sneakily climbs a tree, the desperate father demands the girl comes back, poor Mac is dragged by his other secret service friends - for being the last man on the totem pole - to get her down. He manages to, and then a branch snaps and down he goes, getting dirt, dust, pollen, and poor thorns all over his suit, which looks as if it's been in a war zone. Catching Midna's eye from across the living room makes him forget all about the pain.

"Well, I don't have a dating life so I'm pretty sure I wouldn't miss it," Mac chortles.

"You? Without a dating life? You're gorgeous."

"Flattered," Mac smiles. _God, his smile._ "You aren't too bad yourself."

"As expected..."

"Slight ego?"

Midna places a hand underneath her chin, looking deep into his olive eyes, which causes a blush to settle on the poor man's cheeks. "I've never seen you around here before, and I've been dragged too many numerous parties. How were you invited?"

This places a grin on Mac's face and he looks down at his feet abashedly. "I was hand selected by Miss Wyndel to become one of the president's secret service agents. Previously I was a security guard at a Wal-Mart," he makes a jazz hands gesture, causing Midna to giggle. "I was _totally_ living in the big bucks, and I knew it too!"

She laughs with him, grinning and smirking. "It does sound like you were living quite the amazing life, Mac. I'd be proud of that, for sure."

"And you?" Mac takes a sip of his water bottle, finishing it and crumbling it up in his hands like a paper plate, which fascinates Midna. He gives her a look, up underneath his brow and it causes the redhead's world to stop completely, her own eyes caught in a whirlwind of emotion that leaves her paralyzed. She must've looked stunned for a second as the secret service agent is furrowing his eyebrows together, waving his hand in front of her face. "And what about you?" he asks again.

Midna blinks, looking around dazed and confused. "Oh... me? I am one of the FBI's top agents. Director Karlo drags me whatever place he can without killing me. It is quite the task, if I do say so myself, but I digress."

"Huh," Mac nods. Midna is thinking this is the worst thing in the entire world, like she's completely proved herself to be nothing short of a dud muffin and he's lost interest. Lo and behold, the man places a hand against his cheek, smiling. "I think that's rather neat. You and I should spar sometime."

"Oh? You wouldn't have your pride beaten by a girl?" Midna jokes.

"As if," he snorts back at her. The two break into raucous laughter, which earns a few looks of disproving, contemptuous glares that makes Midna give them all the finger. Anyone looking at them turns around quickly, afraid she'll take some names and kick some ass, but it's all in the good spirit of things. The redhead is willing to bet she is not as cognizant as usual when inebriated, as she's had four or five drinks already. Mac flexes his muscles in a very pathetic manner, obviously making a show of himself. "These guns had to wrestle kids from stealing candy, and ma'am, I don't think you can handle their firepower."

She raises an eyebrow at her, and then decides that she only lives once. "Is that so?"

"Totally."

Midna perhaps does what is the most stupid thing of her entire life, and there have been a few, placing a kiss right on Mac's lips, pulling him forward by grabbing his tie and tugging him towards her. He's caught off guard, as most would be in this sort of situation, hands unsure of where to go, so he places them against the sides of her face, her hands tugging at the shirt.

"Should we- should we go somewhere private?" Mac whispers to her.

"I'd think that'd be for the best..." she agrees.

The redhead gets up and drags poor Mac off with her, the two stumbling giddily into a bathroom before the evident sound of the door locking is heard by a few dancing and drinking by said bathroom. The stares continue for a few seconds till everyone acts as if nothing had happened. Which, is perfectly okay in their book. Stuff like this happens all the time. Just ask Corrin and Cloud.

Over in the kitchen is Robin Wyndel, the vice president in deep conversation with one of the lectures of anatomy at Harvard, and she's currently trying to act as fascinated as possible with the rather boring and trite discussion of brain cells and their connection to STEM cell research, and Robin wishes she could just go back to bed. Now that she thinks about it, she hasn't seen Corrin at all since the beginning of the party, the president entirely consumed by her husband's presence and the arrival of people who apparently mean something to her.

Robin is so distracted in her 'listening' that her gaze wanders over to Midna and Mac, and her Grinch like heart that does not exist manages to grow every time she witnesses Mac smile. He's a little precious teddy bear in her eyes, a man who's been stumbling around like a lost puppy and now he's grounded, experiencing the fruits of the world that allow him a fraction of happiness. When she watches the two of them kiss, her eyes sparkle and she feels like a mother standing on the sidelines as their baby grows up and graduates. She's so enthralled in watching the two stumble into the restroom that she doesn't even notice the person she's talking to walk away in disgust, being replaced by the FBI director himself.

Robin Wyndel is not particularly swoon over like the other women in the establishment by Snake's good looks, charm, or whatever he's calling it nowadays. She is no longer holding onto any glass of wine as she gave up on trying to become drunk hours ago, and by the looks of things, her new buddy is just now starting his journey into an alcoholic hangover. Sounds like so much fun.

"You looked one hundred percent invested in that conversation," Snake nudges her, a new chilled bottle of beer resting in his right hand. He takes a sip and settles it down on the counter. "I think that's the same face you have whenever Corrin mentions any sort of political gathering. You need to stop looking so disinterested. It gives off the bad kind of vibes."

"And what, pray tell, Snake, would you know anything about 'bad vibes', hmm?" Robin places her hands on her hips, making a not-so serious facial expression that makes Snake bellow with the vibrations of a snare drum echoing in his vocal cords. She is downright precious with her blizzard hair in a bun bouncing up and down as she gives him the stink eye.

"I think you've forgotten what I am in our government, Robin," the FBI director crosses his arms over his chest. "It is my inexplicitly stated job as FBI director to read people, and I don't think you do a very good job at hiding your true emotions."

"True emotions..." Robin sputters. "I'll have you know that I do a _very_ good job at hiding my emotions from people. Thank you _very_ much."

He gives her a look that reads anything other than belief, and Snake almost wants to chastise her. Snake turns his lip up into a smirk, taking another sip before sighing loudly and purposefully, which elicits a glare from the vice president somewhere in his general direction, but he looks around haplessly. "Well, then prove me wrong. Were you or were you not completely bored out of your mind with the conversation that you had?"

She bites down on her tongue. Robin has no idea why she ever decided as a teenager to want to enter politics. It is a lot of ripping hair out of her head moments, too many dollar signs and bruised egos and spreadsheets. A lot of bright flashes from cameras and the obnoxious voices of reporters who don't know anything about personal space, their ugly mugs and pimpled faces two inches from Robin's where she can smell their three day old pizza breath and see their hollowed out eyes that are mere empty shells of a black void oozing the ripe and staunch stench of desperation.

"Okay," the silverette caves. "I downright hated listening to him."

Snake's eyes twinkle a glow of triumph, and he settles a hand precariously against her shoulder which she shrugs off. He sighs. This woman will never be beat. "First rule in being an FBI agent. Everyone is always watching you, and you're always watching them. Do not let anyone see you sweat. It works in any circumstance. Because, since you had been so disinterested, you also missed the guy you were speaking to flip you off and utter a few not scholarly like words in your direction."

Her face flushes a pure and angry scarlet, hands curled into fists, but Snake presses gently as she can see the sleaze ball from across the room and it takes all of Robin's willpower and Snake's resistance to not launch herself forward and pummel the ungrateful ingrate. Robin searches desperately for a way to channel her anger, fingers latching for the gilded cross necklace around her throat, deciding to spin around and play with it. When she speaks, her voice has lost all confidence. "So what? One man's opinion to my hideous reaction. Big whoop."

"It's a big whoop like the one that got Roy nearly killed in Boston," Snake reprimands, his face darkening somewhat. Robin blanches at the thought of the poor redhead Syrenet employee, as she hasn't gotten a chance to meet him in person and almost missed the opportunity had he died. "Roy panicked in hopes of probably pleasing Corrin and myself on the mission and forgot everything he should in dealing with crisis situations such as the one he was in. I smelled his fear from miles away, even when I met him as he isn't the best at keeping his emotions in check."

"I can't very well say that my emotions would lead to something like _that,_ " Robin counters, and the wringing of the cross continues. Her thoughts flash over Midna and Mac's interaction. "Is the redhead girl with you Midna? The same on the Boston trip?"

"That'd be the one. She's- she's trying to not think about what happened." the FBI director shuffles his shoes awkwardly.

"The two of them looked happy together. It's what I had been staring at."

"Lovely indeed," the two share a chuckle. "Did you see how his face lit up when she kissed him? Midna is a hopeless flirt, but she hardly actually kisses someone outside of a mission. I haven't known her to be the dating type, so let's cross our fingers and hope it isn't a one night fling where both parties involved feel terrible afterwards. Ten bucks says you wish that right now, you were Midna and I was Mac." Oh boy, Snake is crossing into thin ice territory now.

Robin closes her eyes, not comprehending the full scale doom of his question, smiling gracefully. "One hundred percent..." her voice trails off, and then she snaps her eyes open, looking at Snake in an unrelenting fury, pounding his shoulder incessantly. "Wait, what? Are you suggesting what _I_ think you're suggesting? As if I'd do it with you!"

Snake laughs and the two return to like they're in high school. "And what if I am?"

"Not on your life, sport."

The two share one more laugh and Snake bids her a quick and hushed goodbye, before grabbing his beer bottle and vanishing somewhere else into the house. Robin leans back against the counter, a devilish smile placated on her face. "That man is downright foolish..." she whispers to herself, not entirely opposed to the thought, but it's not like she's going to tell him that. It'd be the ever lasting end to her.

She looks around the crowd, and her stare catches the person she hasn't seen the entire night. Corrin's.

The president is bent into conversation with her husband, and Robin only wants to know what they're talking about as her best friend's face is lit brighter than a chandelier, Lumiere has got nothing on her!

Corrin bats at her husband's arm playfully, Cloud smirking along with her.

"Don't let Robin hear what you just said! She'll probably kill you on the spot." the president winks with her husband, the two standing together under the arched walkway into the dining room where the chefs and butlers and maids were currently setting the table.

"Maybe it'd be a good thing," Cloud muses in jest. "It'd get me away from you, as currently you're the worst thing in the world. I can hardly stand you."

Cloud is taller than Corrin by a good six or seven inches, her husband's height being a domineering 6'3, his tornado of lemonade hair only adding to the sheerness of scale. His diamond eyes appraise over the house with a jovial light, face laden in a smile as he watches the patrons completely swallowed whole by the buzz of interaction and bliss. His shoulders are broad and cloaked underneath a crisp midnight suit, pearly white tie, and a firm handshake to top things off. His smile is so counterintuitive to Corrin's, that when he flashes an A+ grade grin, you cannot help but feel welcome, whereas his wife flashes an iconic smile meaning she has plotted your death alongside your entire family.

No one believes they are truly together, but it's all hearsay created by the journalists and reporters to try and boggle down the amazing and accomplished feats of the Etch administration. When the two married, Corrin's highest wish that Cloud dutifully fulfills is that their names are still kept unchanged, that she remains Corrin Etch and he be still Cloud Gladwell. Corrin relays the information to him over one typical cocktail dinner as her words act like a safe holder. She doesn't want her bad deeds to catch up with her and hurt his entire reputation by having the same last name. He thinks she's being too sweet and too precautionary, as this happens before Corrin Etch even has a formulated an idiotic fathom at becoming the president of the United States.

Corrin takes his insult, though meant to be a harmless joke, in stride. "Keep your tongue in check, honey. You don't want to lose it." He laughs at her threat with as much mirth as he does when being insulted any such other time, but his wife isn't exactly playing games. He knows this by the dangerous light playing out in her eyes, the 'harmless' smirk that she tosses out so effortlessly, and Cloud kisses her temple to keep her at bay.

"I can witness your beauty with only my ears and eyes, Corrin. I don't need to speak, it only ruins the moment."

"You got that right," Corrin chuckles, ignoring his sweet talk. The senator of New York squeezes her shoulder, turning behind him as a chef announces that dinner is ready. His face elates, as he's been starving for a good few hours and planning out this entire dinner party with the many guests has been quite the chore, and quite the chore it has turned out, where he has to dig into _his_ wallet for funds makes it the icing on the cake.

"Dinner is ready, darling," he announces to his wife, and her face matches that of his.

Corrin grabs her wine glass which is full to the brink, spilling some to the carpet. A sizzle of Merlot tips out and it splatters everywhere. The putrid violet stain reminds her of Fiora Roberts' blood for a few seconds, and her vision hazes over, jagged lines of static disrupting the pallid carpet and her husband's worried, reflective stare. The president regains her composure, taking a knife from the table and gently tapping it against the glass.

It manages to get everyone's attention, including the stragglers when Corrin's mind distraction over Fiora's blood resemblance to the Merlot stain causes her to slice the stem of the glass entirely in two, the rest of the goblet coming down with her, soaking the president's hand in a tart and purplish liquid. Her eyes go as wide as saucers, steam practically pouring out of every orifice in her body, Cloud biting down on his lip so he doesn't laugh.

She blows a tuff of hair out of her eyes, and tries to not notice the drops of liquid currently going _drip-drip_ off of her fingertips, or the coagulation of sticky wine like the coagulating of ripe, fresh crimson blood. Corrin's hateful sneer twists grotesquely into a brazen smile. "Dinner is ready ladies and gentlemen! And I guess, so is the wine carpet. Come taste at your own discretion! Refunds will not be given if you get a few cats hairs along with a sample!"

A few people laugh at her joke, which raises Corrin's spirit as she turns into the dining room with evident disgust in how she walks. Cloud follows at her heels, and so does a few disgruntled and gay guests, their laughter abounding high up into the air. Snake and Robin follow soon after, the latter's face turned into a frown as she's completely stuck and pondered over the fact that she doesn't remember Corrin ever mentioning a cat, and she for certain knows that Cloud is allergic to the furry beasts, so she's completely perplexed.

Midna manages to hear Corrin's announcement of food, and since she's as hungry as a ravenous bear, she rips herself and Mac out of the bathroom, both completely disheveled. Her hair has come undone, flowing down like locks of lava against her tanned back. Mac's suit is rustled, hair a mess, lipstick stains marked all over his cheeks. He zips up his dress pants as someone kindly mentions his fly is down. She takes him by the hand and drags him with her.

Shulk is the last to trudge into the dining room, vision starting to blur slightly from the apparent alcohol running rampant through his veins. He is unable to see clearly, but it isn't stopping him from embarrassing perhaps the most important person in the world. He steps into the dining room, which is far larger than anything at Syrenet. A long, wooden table painted a rich and suave dark chocolate brown is in the center, elaborate and ornate napkins with a fancy golden trim lacing the outer edges placed at each seat. In the center between the forks, knives, and spoons which are a stainless bronze, is a plate that reflects off the truly gorgeous chandelier hanging above the table.

He's in awe, noted by his wide, gaping open mouth. Shulk is quick to shut it, in case he wants flies to come zipping in and make a home in his tonsil cavity. There's one seat remaining, the table wide enough to hold about forty people, stretching a good twenty to thirty plus feet than an average table, Corrin and Cloud situated together at the left end of the table, Robin on the other side. Mac, Midna, and Snake all sit in a line luckily, a wicked blush settled on both of the lovebirds faces. The last seat remaining for Shulk is right by the vice president, and she smiles comfortingly at him to take a spot.

The blonde sits, Corrin introduces everyone at the table, claps her hands, and the feast begins.

Waiters and waitresses bust out of the kitchen doors, carrying trays and trays of food. Shulk thinks he's never seen this much food in his life before, even when he and Fiora's reception had been _paid_ for by Corrin's enormous wedding fund. He snorts at the thought that the president of the United States, before she became the royal and prestigious title that she is, set aside in her checkbook an entire folder for weddings that wouldn't include her own.

The first plate placed down in front of Shulk is a simple Cesar salad. He wrinkles his nose at it; he's never been a fan of the anchovy dressing. However, this salad is nothing much than extraordinary. The lettuce is neatly trimmed, which makes him think of the metaphor as if lettuce were fingernails, which worsens his appetite even further. A bed of emerald green rests in the bronze bowl, followed by croutons of many shapes, sizes, and even colors. He bites into one and immediately a savory flavor explodes into his mouth, followed by something sweet. Looking at fellow reactions from around the table, he's not the only one. As he is digging inside the bowl for a piece of grilled chicken, grilled so perfectly that the black sear lines spell words in the meat, Shulk notices that Midna has not even touched her plate, and by that he means she hasn't lifted her napkin from her side or lifted her utensils. She's chatting with Mac and Snake like it's nothing, yet neither man is saying something. Shulk frowns, shrugs his shoulders, and goes back to eating.

Following the salad is soup, which makes Robin clap her hands like a giddy school girl. The Alpha commander of Syrenet asks what was the sudden devolution of going from adult woman to toddler for, but then finds out when the bowl is placed in front of him. His mouth waters hungrily, well beyond even the most extreme form of hunger, if that was possible. Inside the bowl is a fiery tortilla chicken soup, and he's looking at vegetables and bread types that he has never seen before. He takes a bite, and what hits him first is the perfect pinch of salt. Shulk's mouth nearly splits in two at the downright riveting taste of salt followed by a softer taste of the broth and black and pinto bean mix. A bite of chicken is next with a piece of rye bread stuck on the side, and he's divulging into another salt cavity. Shulk thinks he's going to get gout if he continues eating ravenously at this rate.

The entrée is a seared piece of lamb, which is something Shulk Roberts is able to say he has never had in his life. A few pieces of grilled asparagus top it, and the lamb sits nicely on a mesh of collard greens and on the side, in a small bowl is some pasta called orzo. He digs a spoon into the pasta, taking a bite. A sweet taste of cheese and delicately spun thyme mix causes his eyes to water at the sheer joy. By the actions of everyone at the table, they're eating it just as heartily. A bone is sticking out of the lamb chop, rugged and coarse and brown, but Shulk tears through the meat akin to ripping open presents like it's Christmas morning. His fork, knife, and spoon are stained all sorts of crazy colors and combinations, the flavor of dinner swishing around with no clear cut winner so far. Refreshments are tiny shot glass mimosas, and if Shulk thought the room had been spinning before hand, it must be revolving as fast as Mercury.

Dinner is something that Shulk enjoys, but he takes more pride in relishing in dessert more. Dessert is placed in front of him, and the sound that comes out of Shulk's throat is that between a delayed whine and a croak of pure and utter gluttony. A ripe piece of chocolate pie sits on the plate, and Robin says it's called European Truffle. It is a chocolate pie with a chocolate crust, followed by a chocolate sponge cake, a creamy and suave mousse center, followed by more cake, the rest of the pie crust, a swirl and tsunami wave of slightly mahogany and coral whip cream, and to top it off, a decadent chocolate ganache. As Shulk is currently enjoying every tantalizing second of dinner, Midna still pushes her plate away for the fourth time, claiming she is not hungry, and her lack of food is filled up by more and more glasses of vodka.

All the dinner guests begin to finish chowing down when Corrin stands up at the other end of the table. She thinks about hitting her new glass of champagne to get everyone's attention, but flashbacks of the living room hit her with the force of a truck, causing her to blanche. Corrin stops and whispers in a server's ear, and the man dutifully nods, retrieving a simple bell from his pocket. She takes it earnestly and jingles it.

In a matter of five seconds, which Shulk knows because he counted, all talk has ceased at the table, and it is pure silence - a ghost town that is lively yet dead at the same time - and a creepy itch has stitched itself to his skin. Shulk breaths in as quietly as he can while Corrin straightens herself up. She looks completely pleased with herself over something unknown, and the blonde has a strange suspicion he's about to find out really fast what the entire dinner has been about.

"Cloud and I wanted to thank you all personally for coming and eating with us tonight!" Murmurs of agreement follow around. Corrin gives the room eye contact that sends shivers down Shulk's spine. "And now that everyone has eaten, I have an announcement to make."

Everyone sits forward, and Robin for some reason reaches across the table to grab Shulk's hand. The blonde flashes the vice president a look that is half deranged, half confused. The longing feeling of dinner and dessert is still resting on his tongue, happy and content that it is not replaced by a bitter taste instead. The vice president has a vice grip on Shulk's arm, fingernails digging into his skin. He winces in pain, as Corrin continues to speak.

"As I am pretty sure you all remember, we all have a Syrenet employee in our midst! Mr. Shulk Roberts!" she shouts, thrusting a hand outwards in his direction. Every pair of eyes in the room flashes to Shulk, immediately scaring him, the blonde jumps and clangs his knee against the table. "Say hello, Shulk." Corrin prods gently, though he sees the fire in her eyes, and it is a dangerous, all consuming one that threatens to destroy everyone who dares oppose her. Cloud stirs somewhat uncomfortable in his seat, eyes sizing Shulk's up, and he reads the emotion of a plea in the two diamond orbs.

Shulk gives a wave akin to the new kid arriving and interrupting a class where he's likely to be turned into a pulp, face probably very pale. "Umm... hello?"

Corrin's face goes through seven stages of rage, rather than seven stages of grief, and she tilts her head dangerously to the right. "As you all know, Syrenet has become one of our brand new efforts in our administration to keep the peace in our divided nation by providing jobs and technological advances around the country, from sea to shining sea and maybe all around the globe if we're lucky."

Robin gives another squeeze to Shulk's hand. "Please try and stay calm..." she whispers.

"What are _you_ talking about?" Shulk hisses back at the vice president.

Corrin's expression impasses as she witnesses the two of them have their 'private' moment. "If you all remember, which I'm sure you do, that our last effort at establishing a branch for Syrenet in Oklahoma had been a failure. Oklahoma City devastated us all, and it made me reconsider all my options. Now, I am ready to make this heartfelt and genuine announcement that no one here other than Robin knows about."

His mind is going fifty million miles a minute, all these possible guesses running rampant. He's debating on a few, such as Syrenet is meshing into perhaps the FBI, or perhaps the president is deciding to cancel it.

What he is not expecting, is this...

"Syrenet will be trying to launch with a conjoined effort from the FBI, a branch in Chicago, Illinois in a week's time." Corrin announces. Right then and there, the entire world goes to hell.

All the color drains out of Shulk's face, and he's feeling very sick. He isn't expecting this. Midna's face drains of color as well, for an entirely different reason.

Corrin's words reverberate inside the blonde's skull, and that sickness plunges from his stomach out through his throat.

However, over at Midna's spot, she vomits all over the table first.

Shulk soon follows suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Which character interaction (Shulk & Midna, Shulk & Snake, Midna & Mac, Robin & Snake, Corrin & Cloud, or Shulk & the dinner table) was your favorite? I'd love your opinion - and please comment, I'd enjoy that too! - and I will see you all soon with Chapter #15: Stone Sacrilege. Have a great evening!


	15. Stone Sacrilege

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy makes a divide, Midna comes clean, and Corrin reevaluates a marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, #15: Stone Sacrilege. Enjoy!

He registers their presence, but decides to not say anything. Roy bites down on his tongue hard to suppress a scream, hard enough that lucid copper fills his mouth and stains his gums with an all too familiar red that burns at his flesh. The man is currently curled up in on himself like a ball, shuddering to keep warm as the heater on the opposite end of the wall broke long ago... too long for it to go unnoticed, for that matter. The redhead's breaths are shaky, but strong all the same. However, his companions do not see the same sort of spirit.

Ike looks down at his hands helplessly, an unreadable emotion coursing through his facial muscles. Pit is much more revealing in his response, mouth dropped open, the computer hooked underneath his arm almost crashing to the floor as he forgets it is there. Silence passes over the trio momentarily, an awkward enough silence where the chirping of crickets in the dark can be heard outside, though the room is ten stories up. Roy sees the outline of Ike's bulking form, but no smile dares stretch across his lips now. Where were his friends at the time he needed them? Probably drinking or spending their hours with Corrin as it seems like everyone in Syrenet besides him were looped around the white bitch's fingers.

Pit fumbles around for a light switch, and halcyon bursts of brightness flood the room. Roy shrieks, going underneath the covers again. He hasn't seen their holographic glow ever since Midna visited him two days ago, and a whole day without mechanical light is quite jarring. Roy throws the sheets off his face, mustering a glare at Pit. The technician falters in his step somewhat at the visibly enraged gesture. He sets the computer down on the table near to him, but Ike pushes the interaction a little further, clearing his throat and stepping up to the end of the bed, clamping his hands on the wrought metal. The redhead jumps, glare now directed towards the bluenette.

"How are you?" Ike asks.

"Terrible," Roy rasps. "And you had a _whole_ lot to do with it."

Ike sets his jaw, eyes locked on something in the distance, maybe a green and luscious plain with treasures flowing over the hills till a jaded sun rises above a steely sky with rays of emeralds and diamonds. Roy does not care personally where his 'friend' has been taken for that split second, but it is enough to piss him off. Pit notices this, hands wringing together in his shirt.

"We're sorry-" he begins.

"I don't want you here," the redhead snaps. "Get out. I've been in here for five days and now you decide to only show up at the very end. What type of message do you think that sends to me?"

"Well, I don't have much of an apology..." Ike retorts back, gaze full of fire and partially murderous enough to make Roy's skin crawl. "Marth, Shulk, Pit, and I were out having a time for ourselves because Shulk had a breakdown while you were gone! And just two days ago, I decided to have a mental breakdown... so sorry we didn't come sooner!"

His voice is sharp, and sometimes Ike likes to entertain his fancy by imagining his voice is one of magnifying proportions, akin to a snare drum's hail against a sheer rock cliff that causes an avalanche, killing thousands. How dare Roy Arcadia think he knows what's best for him, and that he should dictate their schedule. How dare he! Ike Forgenson does not joke around, no sir, and he is prepared to make sure everyone who dares insult him or question one tactic of his life knows that. The commander reels his mind back to the tangible feeling of fear. He's fearing something right now, as it sits on his skin and festers deep. He's worried about Roy's reaction.

Roy can only conceptualize what had to have been running in Ike's head before his last words had been just spoken. Pure, unadulterated fear. Pure terror, and Roy Arcadia, president of his new self-loathing company, loves every single digitalized second, down to the nanoseconds and cyberspace particles. Ike looks taken aback by his own ferocity, and he begins to tremble. However, the trembling stops and he's up and moving about the hospital room.

Pit takes this golden opportunity to stand up and speak. He looks down at his feet. "We're- we're sorry about not coming here earlier. There were some complications... and then just yesterday I- I noticed..." he breaks off his sentence, it drowning in a somewhat half sob.

The redhead's face goes somber, the anger receding back into his veins, and Roy notices the change in demeanor. "What, Pit? What happened at Syrenet while I was gone?"

The technician looks at Roy straight in the face. "Ness, your AI Unit, had been terminated. Officially Corrin's orders."

Roy looks at away from Pit, the words ebbing over, and they sting. They all sting so badly, he doesn't know what to do anymore. None of his friends, not a single one, understands what it means to be horrified by their end staring them down in the face, before mauling you to bits. Link Collins is a festering rat, and when Roy thinks he has given up one enemy for a minute second of suffering, this wall comes crashing down on him. Yet, Roy does not shed a single tear. He wants to, he is willing himself to, but it just isn't happening.

He wishes, though it is a halfway met wish, that he places a child or even better, a Corrin in the mess he had been thrown into, like the feared little animal he was. Have the silverette run around, head cut off with all support vanishing in seconds from her grasp. Link's snarl, the butt of his gun, Midna's flame of her hair... the isolation, his loneliness. Perhaps that'll show her, it'll show that viper, her folk without brains and a sense of self, what true fright is and what shall happen to any instigators. He wishes to make example of them, and make example of them Roy Arcadia shall.

Roy looks back, and similar to Ike, locks his jaw. "What now?"

Pit shrugs. "I've never had to deal with this before. Corrin said that you could create a new AI Unit to go along with your suit, if you want. It's why- it's why I brought the computer."

In the matter of a few, well... good seconds, Roy presses his lips together in a thin line. "No."

"No... what?" Pit furrows his eyebrows together.

"I don't want another AI Unit. I had Ness, Ness was mine, and now I've lost him. I am not going to somehow go through this feeling of losing another." He shall not discuss another word of this unless Pit wants Roy's lunch fork wedged in between an eyeball and the bridge of his nose.

Ike is tired of pacing and decides to go stand over by the right corner of the bed, hands against the wall, palms airy, face unreadable. Fingers splay outwards, and Roy witnesses the struggle on his face on whether or not he should drop some other bombshell in this continuous and effective mental abuse of his associate. He swallows, trying to hide the fear most certainly plastered on his face. That's in his past, and he's moved on from that, he has most certainly moved on from that. He is no longer a man who exploits other emotional weaknesses to make himself feel better.

Pit is restless, however, and wants to continue discussing this matter of not having a Syrenet AI Unit. If there is no AI Unit inside the suit, the suit itself is nothing special and holds no more merit than a simple meshing of armor and twisted steel. Roy Arcadia is a fool, an ideal that Pit wants to capitalize on, but he shall swallow his words and mull on like nothing has happened. There's nothing else to pursue in the tangential thoughts of Ness, reflections, lost memories, failed aspirations and more. He begins tapping a hand against the counter where the computer rests, Roy's own eyes following his every movements. He is covered in a cold sweat, given a sheen of light and slickness coating his arms. Roy shifts focus to Ike, and he notices the bags under his eyes. What has happened to them while he's been gone? Roy wants to feel pity, he wants to care, but there's nothing. All because of the blonde bastard, the knife, and the ego he once had, chipped and shattered like abused china dolls.

He knows where this conversation will be heading, what everyone is going to start talking about, but for the sake of Roy herself, Ike keeps quiet. Keeping quiet is what almost got him killed, but it is a different story and a different memory than what he wants to ponder on at the moment. Roy takes a sigh, and for some reason a pit of want settles in his belly. He desires, truly and faithfully, a chilling glass of the vodka. Not just any vodka, but _the_ vodka that hails itself from a European made bottle of plutonium and sulfuric acid... and Roy's mouth waters at perhaps having the burning taste. All he knows is that Corrin's party is currently going on and Shulk is dancing and drinking up a storm. He imagines the blonde hailing the waiter who is serving down again for another drink, and will take that one as well. Roy can feel the liquid burns in his throat like a long lost kiss, or a hazily written suicide note with blood still splattered over the drooping ink blots. He reaches out to touch Shulk's drink, Shulk's very concept of alcohol hand when he accidentally knocks over an old lunch tray to the floor, a glass sitting on it that had been full of water. Empty, luckily empty. Just like Roy's heart of understanding emotion and the true meaning of Ike and Pit's visit.

It touches the ground with a deafening crash, shattered shards of crystalline glass shooting everywhere. His eyes begin to twitch, andshe's stuck remembering Link Collins, that arms dealer's throat, all mauled up and scissor cut as if the blade had done more than a simple slice. He blinks. Link Collins didn't die by having his throat cut by a knife. He had been shot. By a gun, a bullet to the forehead.

He immediately goes to apologize, as he's always doing stupid shit like this all the time, and it is kind of disappointing to be reminded of it constantly. Roy hates thinking about what he's already broken too many times in his house, his bathroom, and his heart.

Pit is not thinking the same thing, but it is perfectly okay. As Roy's friend leans to pick up the shards of glass, the redhead catches a glimpse at Pit's wrist, hidden away by a long-sleeved button down, which he finds peculiar as it is in the middle of the hospital's horrendous heat. The skin is scarred up, and he nearly loses his breakfast. Scraggly drawn lines, dyed a putrid crimson, are dotting his entire arm. Sinew lines are twisted in and plagued with warped fire, tissue in tiny, precious knots that should scream pain. However, Pit seems to be unfazed by all of this suffering, which is oddly peculiar.

Roy looks down at her hands, partly ashamed, though he has no idea why. He decides to put his blame on Shulk. All of this is Shulk's fault. His suffering... nearly all of the things that have happened to him recently he shall place on the blonde and silently, forever he'll hate him. _It's all his fault! He messed you up, and there needs to be something done for that. Screw him, he's just jealous that I have retained my good looks._ The redhead's skin feels dry, pulled back and scraped off as if he's in agonizing pain, boils and blisters lined up and bursting with feverish fervor. His bones crack and break in the worst points, fingers constantly poised as if they're ready to strike, or that they're curled up around a blade that goes _swish-swish_ into Corrin or Link's skin. The taste of lucid copper fills his mouth, and the presence is warm and necessary and needed. Roy Larson is no coward, but he's a coward at the thoughts of the world he's now been inducted in. It's all Shulk's fault for even thinking of introducing that to him!

The brunette places the tray back on the nightstand and it is a call to Ike that things are over. "Well, we'll see you tomorrow. It is clear you don't want to talk to us about anything and I'm not going to force you. Pit, let's go. Goodnight Roy. I hope your dreams treat you better than we have."

Then Ike Forgenson is gone, off into the bustling hallways of the hospital, lights dancing above him in a vicious blaze. Roy sits in his spot, speechless as his words ebb and flow over her and are registered brain deep. Ike's only reason to escape the hellish room is so he won't talk to him, as Roy has done a thing only he knows how, pissing the guy off. Pit bites down his lip, bids adieu, and races from the room, calling the bluenette's name hysterically. Roy Arcadia wishes there was something in the world known to man as the bottomless glass of vodka.

* * *

Nine seconds.

That's normally how often Midna gives herself before she is standing at the mirror and screaming into it on depressed Friday and Saturday nights. _Why aren't you perfect? Why the hell did you think anyone cared about you? No one will care about you unless you're perfect, you screwed up son of a bitch. You're a single, bankrupt, little asshole that no one likes. Deal. With. It._

Once the tears start spilling for the three thousandth time (it is droll and silly, crying gets Midna nowhere, she knows this, she contemplates this constantly, _yet s_ he still does it insistently), she's down on the tiled bathroom floor sobbing into her arms while she rocks back and forth. Her voice hurts, her arms are sore, her back is dying in agony, yet all he wants to do is cry. She's beyond stupid. _Why aren't you perfect? Why the hell did you think anyone cared about you?_ Single. Bankrupt. Dumb. Dead. Gone. Trash. _Revel in the hatred of your little pitiful life, you dumb idiot._

She's messed up beyond messed up, Midna realizes that one morning. But, the issue didn't come from herself, she feels. She's got a perfect life, though she isn't perfect herself. A nice little flat in a high rise skyscraper building in Washington D.C, three closets full of amazing fashion choices she could droll over and still never find the right outfit... tousled, kissed by fiery hair, a cheeky smile, gorgeous men she could go and screw around silly... yet she loathes and hates herself and her life (there truly is nothing she can do to fix it).

Midna is tired at staring at the clock, at longing to leap off the balcony, so she goes into her happy little place, and she doesn't notice the other person sitting across from her at the table. Her thought process is rather done in a drunk manner, as if she is stumbling everywhere it seems across the room with that wine glass pouring the crimson liquid all over, there is so much red staining the carpet and couch and walls it looks like there was a murder of a million people. She is unfazed by this. All she can recognize is that this wine is some good shit, it is deliciously satisfying, like a euphoria rush that would last longer than three seconds.

Midna Nye hates the weekends. It is a feeling of dread whenever the clocks roll over to 12:01 A.M on Saturday morning while she lays awake staring at the ceiling. Despicable and nasty, it curdles inside her stomach as she vomits over the toilet in the bathroom only four steps from the head of her bed. Weekends means there is no work, no time to spend away clattering at keyboards and getting paid, no one to kill, no one to go and have sex with because it is part of a mission... she is forced to sit at home and be a good little dog. That's what the weekend means for her, because it seems like no one in the FBI ever has anything for her to go over the weekend.

On the surface, the woman is a workaholic. Needs it with her everywhere she goes, something to do so she isn't killing time. Now, Midna does hate clattering away at keyboards, she is no secretary, she is no receptionist or accountant. Simply a woman who requires his time spent having something to occupy it with, not sitting around and waiting for the world to end like some people. For Midna Nye, work is the long lost love to all of his problems. Have a life threatening injury? Work it away, bury your nose into a salary of meager money, shake customer's hands while currently your health saps away behind the counter... a perfect circle.

The warm summer breeze is flowing throughout the front doors of the restaurant, light violin music playing on speakers, though there is a live band out in the corner so unless their creations were being amped out to the masses, their added effect did not work, waste of time. Above her, Midna is looking up, though below the painting which is in turn the ceiling, is a winding banner of fabric on either side of the restaurant. Lights lace the fabric, gold lines of sensibility and gorgeousness with halcyon dots wrapping around them like a tongue dancing for entry in front of a closed mouth. A single chandelier swings above the reflective floor, an mired mix of khaki pants and gowns skirting around the glass ground. Streamers in a plethora of colors flow from the chandelier to the columns adorning the wall, those falling to the floor in a tornado of cloth and bodies.

She can barely make out the other person sitting across from her, and her companion _snaps_ his fingers together to get her attention.

Midna blinks. "What?" she asks angrily.

Her lunch associate, which is actually Snake Karlo, FBI director, looks across the table at her with a sorrowful gaze. He nods to her hand. "Don't you think it is a little... early in the day to be drinking so heavily?"

She looks at her hand and almost lets out a laugh. A glass of Merlot is currently in her hand, the bottle resting by her side. After all, _Midna_ did request that the two meet up at an open-air Olive Garden restaurant where they'd serve wine and spirits super early in the wee hours of the morning. She waves a hand around like it is nothing, dismissive almost. "It's like, eleven..." she smirks. "It's _not_ that early."

Snake does not seem so easily swayed. "Well, after all that you had to drink last night, I'm surprised you're still standing. I'm surprised you've been coherent enough to drive here by yourself let alone. I think... no, I _know_ that I'm taking you home afterwards."

Midna gives him a sly eye. "I have a feeling that this meet up is more than just about my drinking."

The FBI director lets out a long sigh, rubbing his brow. He feels sticky, as if Midna has just dumped the entire flagon of wine all over him by apparent rage. He senses there's something troubling her, but does not press the issue as it wouldn't be too kind. However, there are a few things he wants to get past her and there's a lot to cover. "This isn't going to be what you want to hear, but I'm saying it anyways. I don't know if this party animal and man-hungry lifestyle choice you want to enact is either a cruel joke or plain truth, but it needs to stop. I understand that what happened in Boston was detrimental... but you and I got out of there pretty lucky. If anyone is to be covering up their pain with true happiness, it is Roy."

This brings Midna's world to a cruel standstill, and she has the glass raised to her lips for a split second, frozen as she looks at him. Did he... did he just say what she thought he just said? "Excuse me?" she stutters.

Snake's nose curls up as if he said something foul. "You heard exactly what you thought you did. I said that you need to get your act together and leave this wild lifestyle out of the picture while all this Syrenet business is cleaned up. Last night, you got shit-faced drunk, clearly had some quick round of sex with that one guy in the bathroom, and then vomited everywhere on that table, refusing to eat your food. I understand you may be in some pain, and either people jump the route to sadness or living like kings, but you're taking the latter side of this to the extreme... wouldn't you say?"

"It was a party, Snake. What do you expect me to do? Just sit and sulk in the corner because I'm not feeling well?"

"That is not what I'm saying, but I am definitely not going to sit here and argue with you. That'd be plain silly." He rubs at his brow. Snake wants to take the bottle of Merlot and smash it over his worker's head, but that'd be uncouth protocol, and he's above all that.

"I take it that Corrin isn't very happy with me, then..." Midna realizes the big picture, sobering up somewhat, though the room is still spinning and she's still suffering from the onslaught and offsets of heavy drinking and no eating.

"She isn't. You made a fool of yourself with the... inappropriate behavior and all that. Corrin already got Robin to talk to your..." Snake grasps at the word. "I don't even know what to call the man. Lover? Whore? Paramour? It's hard to understand exactly what you had between him, because you flirted, he flirted back and in the middle of that there was the unbuckling of pants and the sound of sex."

"A one night stand. That is all..." the redhead retorts.

Snake looks at her with regard. "I hope you can handle having to see him again when we go to Chicago. Mac is a part of this little band Corrin has created, and whether we like it or not, she's dragged us into it so the last assignment doesn't repeat itself," Midna begins to protest that the idea is absolutely preposterous and she knows where she can stick this wine bottle if Corrin demands her presence, but Snake puts a hand up. Stern, yet forgiving, which is his reliable nature in the midst of thorned chaos. "I don't understand the true severity of why Syrenet causes this country so much apparent trouble, but disobeying Corrin's orders is something she doesn't take lightly if you still want your job."

Midna twists her napkin into the table. "You're her tiny little puppet?"

He gives her a smile that is effortlessly and utterly terrifying, and shivers rack all up and down Midna's spine. "Corrin may think I have all my playing cards set in her deck, but I'm not so easily swayed. My allegiances, Midna, are for whomever feels their actions are for the betterment of this country. As of late, that has been Corrin, but it can very well change and that woman will watch whatever is tethering us together get cut and she'll be left all alone without the FBI backing her up. I've done it to presidents before, and nothing is stopping me from doing it again."

She wants to move onto another topic, but cannot truly think of anything to say. So she picks something that is plain and simple... it always works, and it'll make her feel ten times better about herself. "I'm sorry..." Midna whispers, but she does it quiet enough that Snake will hear it, but he won't force the woman to repeat it as he does not do things in that sort of cruel fashion.

"I know..." Snake's words sound sad, deeply saddened and there's nothing he can do to ease her pain. "If... if you don't mind me asking- as your boss and hopefully someone you view as your friend... I want to know something. Why did you vomit everywhere on that table, especially after never touching your food? Was your stomach simply not wanting it, or...?"

Midna presses her lips into a thin line and lets out a deep sigh. Her world is about to come crumbling down and she is more than willing and accepting. "I am diagnosed with... with bulimia..." she whispers.

Snake's eyes darken, and worry lines furrow into his brow, along his chin, and any twinkle that may have settled in his eyes vanish like a match going out. He reaches across the table and holds her hand, stiff and firm. "I'm sorry." and he means it.

She knows he is, but there's nothing her boss can do about the problem. It has to be rooted from deep within, and that's something Midna will take years at perfecting. However, she's on a tangent, she's on a role and nothing will stop her. "Years ago, my husband... well, he always wanted me to be as slim as possible. Willingly, as I was some stupid little lovesick girl who didn't know anything about the world, would listen. I'd push meals away and watch my hips cleave together, bones making sounds of crushed gears and machines. Then he'd cook a feast that's only for me. I'd take it all, then I'd force myself to throw it all back up. I had to make myself thin, _thin_ for the man who says he loved me... when everyone around me knew he didn't. Getting into the FBI only made it worse, Snake. I had to stay fit, and I am fit, but I eat everything and then vomit it up later... I look healthy but deep down there is nothing there. It- it only gets worse when I drink and- I just..." Midna's voice breaks off, and she shudders into a few silent, empty sobs.

A hand reaches over and rubs her back as Midna sobs into the tablecloth. Tables around them stop their conversations to glance or even glare as some people have no manners, but it doesn't matter.

All that matters, all that exists to Midna is that she and Snake have had this moment.

Somewhere, somewhere deep, Midna shares a sample of Roy's pain and drowns in it.

* * *

Mired laughs fill the library, and Corrin giggles along with him as she's thinking back to a younger self, a woman with dreams and ambitions and goals that are no longer hers, but that's okay. She looks at her husband with a smile while he presses the beer to his lips and throws his head back. They've been separated from each other for far too long. Corrin's exhausted from a night of staying up, on the phone with Snake, discussing Midna's actions of absolute disrespect, or to Shulk who she is extremely most sorry for and the fact he also vomited, but probably from being upset.

However, now Corrin Etch's thoughts have centered on her husband, and she notices it, an intangible thought that her husband is missing a bit of his old self while he stares at her. It doesn't help her, she realizes, that her husband says whatever is on his mind when he's intoxicated, and it's late the day after the party, and he's had a few beers while they're both cooped up in the library.

She looks at him with a particular peculiarity though she cannot place it on something. Corrin has known Cloud for many, many years and she's gone through the thick and thin with him on many occasions before getting married. But now her eyes can view it full force, the lost puppy dog look in his eyes, how even his hair is combed messily because there's no fire residing in his soul to do anything. Corrin cannot necessarily soul search for him and get a guy or girl who'll compliment what he wants... as it seems she no longer is ample support for her husband... as he's standoffish. She remembers how he had been acting last night, joking with her incessantly. However, Cloud Gladwell catches a word or twenty spoken to Shulk that Corrin barks into the phone and he's soured up.

Corrin thinks, as she doesn't want to get caught staring.

She thinks of what she wants to do to her enemies, and there are numerous ones that she simply doesn't give names to. Link Collins placates itself perfectly in the center. If he hadn't done the things he's done - Corrin stops the train of thought right there. Her mind wanders to how she would've killed him. Snake putting a bullet through his skull is too merciful. The scumbag lies to her face, nearly kills three people essential to her Syrenet plan, and then acts like he can walk it off.

Bull- _fucking_ -shit.

The silverette man snarls her imaginary welcome, before lifting the gun up and firing at Link straight in the chest. He falls down, his voice going out in a sudden croak, and Corrin is now on top of him, unsheathing her knife at her pant leg. _Up. Down. Up. Down._ Link's cries become strangled and estranged as blood begins to spurt everywhere over the tile and everywhere else there is a tear. Corrin drives the knife in the gunshot wound, ignoring the pained cries of her old associate before Link cuts himself off, his eyes glaze over, and Corrin is still slamming the blade down into the man's body.

She likes this ending. Knife and gun, and a death that is painful.

Corrin Etch, president of the United States, and leader of Syrenet, dreams of falling. She thinks she's falling.

Her eyes snap open and realize that she's actually not dreaming of falling.

She literally is falling to the ground, and she's screaming. She's screaming bloody murder.

Everything seems to happen so fast, in life. That much is true. Corrin misses the old days, yet she remembers a time when her mother died. Robin decides to go with her, as this is early on in their friendship, and it is a day she wants out of her head. She passes a glance over at Cloud, and smiles, because she knows he wasn't there to see her at her true self. A desperate, sleaze bag woman who only wants what she can get in reasonable measure.

There is a somber feeling that is covering the cemetery about two miles away from the heart of New York City. A slight mist settles above the tree lines, it is dark and damp and smells of river sewage soak into the ground and the tombstones. Two women stand underneath an umbrella as it is starting to pour, which is silly as they are also standing underneath a birch tree with branches and leaves that spawn quite the natural covering.

The tension feels high between them, and perhaps this is for a good reason as death is never seen to unite people on any good front. Corrin rubs her shoulder innocuously, just a week ago, not even that, there was a time when two great people were together and loved each other. Her mother, her father, both are old in age. She is jealous, she isn't earning anything in her inheritance. Jealousy is a plague, a crippling disease that kills and kills and kills and kills till there's nothing left but rubble that is smoking. Smoke and ash from collapsed homes that burn down in the winter, which seems to be counter intuitive. The silverette scoffs to herself, leaning against the tree, feeling the _drip drip_ of the rain from above.

_(This is all an old thought, Corrin wishes, that this never happened in her past life)_

Silence washes over them again, a subdued silence that is slowly dragging on until both women decide this is beyond awkward. Corrin digs into her coat pocket and pulls out a carton of cigarettes. A pallid box of tobacco and lung cancer created for those who feel like there's more comfort in a puff than a hug. She, in her life, has never smoked up until a week ago. Corrin fishes for one of the sticks of death and searches in the other pocket for a lighter. Under the rain, under that birch tree, she lights the cigarette as a wisp of fire takes to the sky and illuminates her face in a ghastly glow.

_She takes a puff, inhales, exhales, and out comes the white smoke in a wisp, a curling, grotesquely bent finger as a reminder of what she's putting in her mouth. "Damn, that feels good."_

_"You smoke?" Robin asks._ Oh, weren't those the days? The days when even her best friend and most trustworthy person she knows isn't constantly throwing her under the bus with short handed comments or making executive orders against the grain and knowledge.

 _"No, I don't." Corrin responds, and that's the rest of this conversation_. She doesn't smoke. Corrin Etch, the beauty from Harvard Law, who now is positioned as Head Manager of the entire damn nation, has to lie in keeping everything in check so she doesn't lose herself. Corrin scratches the back of her neck.

Her mind then floats to another scenario.

One of empty, restless nights when she had a child and her and Cloud had just been married.

She is awoken early in the night, she recalls. Corrin sighs, looking over at the bedspread. She blinks hard, once or twice, Corrin loses count of the number of times she does the bodily action, it is automatic, necessary. _Blink_. Why isn't she here? _Blink_. _Blink. Blink. Blink_. Shit. The silverette groans, together in this memory and in real life, realizing rather quickly the same fate occurring inside her brain is targeting the husband she so desperately loves. Stupid insomnia. Stupid inner demons. Instead of a soundlessly sleeping blonde haired man of god that is Cloud Gladwell, there is a blank space vacated by her legs, no warm breath passing over her shoulder. Perhaps out on the terrace again, more than likely. That's where Cloud goes when he tries shutting down his inner suffering.

Back in the library, Corrin hopes to forget. Cloud is hiding something up his sleeve.

She recalls and she hates it. Their first fight as a married couple. Bottles are thrown, tables are overturned, and neither can escape either's wrath. It is bloody, it is painful, it is excruciating, it is awkward, it is torment, it is beautiful, it is _euphoric,_ it is entirely _Corrin Etch's_ very essence. She clutches a ring on her finger, and the memory dissipates like water hitting a rock.

Her hands circle the ring slowly, Corrin's pinkie smoothly rubbing over the gemstone. Cloud had asked what her favorite color was on a dinner date so many years ago it seemed like it belonged in the Roman numeral system. She responded quietly with blue, radiating sapphire and aquamarine waves that resembled the sky so beautifully and sharply. So what he did, as the gentleman Cloud used to once be, he bought her a ring. With a gemstone of that exact color. She loved him for it, more than most people would have.

Corrin laughs to herself now, in that library.

She remembers when Cloud, in those days off, would play the first person shooters that took an entire generation by storm.

The white haired girl never watches the killing. She lets the sounds fill in the missing pieces. They are to fulfilling.

Their second argument, Corrin recalls, is evil and much more vile than the first.

The couple is warring over taxes and issues such as not having enough to pay for the funeral procession of someone's dead child, theirs or otherwise no one can tell. Corrin is bitter and rude when she says that she hopes everyone she's ever cared about dies in some horrible plane crash... as if they're heading to their own funerals because someone set them up. An enemy of the court, an enemy of the country.

Corrin's response makes her own heart solidify. _"In case we die, I sit there and cannot believe you're the man I fell in love with. That you're the person I could be dying alongside with. I can never be fully happy with who we are, but as long as I don't lose myself tonight, or any other night, I'm okay with who I lose in the process."_

The couple leaves many undesired words between them as they walk back to their hotel.

Behind them, a blood sun sinks beneath the sky.

She blanches at this memory.

One particular night, she wakes up screaming. Eyes are closed, but there is full-fledged terror in her face. _"No! Don't shoot my little boy! Please, God no!"_ A piercing gunshot breaks the mold of her screeching, where she falls back to the covers of the new bed and cries her eyes out. Cloud still hasn't returned to bed; he is not at her side the moment he hears his wife cry out bloody murder. What in God's name... where had he gone? This is argument number three.

It is as if he doesn't care to even check on her anymore. The white haired girl snorts. Such was the issue at the moment. She sits up, throwing off the blankets that adorn her body. A hand is thrown through tousled hair, all Corrin can do is check the surroundings, seeing them empty and vacant. Looks as if a search party needed to be organized. A groan shifts her out of bed, where feet land lightly from hours in ballet on carpeted floor, where scuffs of rough cotton prick her toes, droplets of ruby blood trailing her in a diverted wake.

Corrin peers into the study. A new mansion, a new life, a new way to rebuild the old and shattered memories of before. Closed window. Curtains stilled. Candle is extinguished. No blonde haired male sleeping on the linoleum floor. What in the hell? Had Cloud just come in her life to vanish off the face of the Earth? She stomps her foot childishly. Being stumped never was her favorite activity, swindling took that by the horns. It meant the excursion had to be expanded beyond the comforting of their room. To search the expanse of the darkness out in the hallway, down the stairs, perhaps to the center piece of her home and into town, of some hick town she has never bothered learning the name of because it is so insignificant. She hates having to be the bigger person.

Navy coats line the wall, again reminiscent of her favorite color. Corrin picks the one closest to the mirror, where she gets a good gaze at herself. Curved figure, plumb breasts, shining eyes, this time a dark heather blue from contacts. She had a man infatuated with her. What more could be asked for? Nothing.

Argument number four feels like it is centuries ago, but Corrin remembers that it isn't long before she had called Shulk into her office to discuss the breaking of glass ceilings.

_"Doing what?"_

_"What do you think? Praying, stupid." Cloud snorts._

She lets the insult slide off of her, in the argument and real life. Corrin had heard far worse when working with clients, those who'd shout and scream all their bitterness in plagued warped fire, where each lash hurt more than the last. She's tired of all of the predicaments, all the lies, all the hazy moments that someone would glue together to form their marriage, to form that so broken relationship even safety glue won't fix it perfectly.

 _"Cloud-"_ she bites her tongue, almost saying his name. Not here, at least. _"I- I uh, had a nightmare. Of the kids when we were little. How they screamed and kicked us that morning, when we both returned, they had been held at gunpoint..."_ Her voice dies, and Corrin lets the tears fall. She remembers that the tears fell on Robin's shoulder of all people.

 _"You should sit."_ Cloud offers gently.

She looks up, staring at the amaranthine stained glass, but Cloud decides, he _chooses_ , to not look at her. He'll collapse too. It's why he came, why he went to the chapel in the first place. For mending, for fixation. She'd have him fall apart too.

_"I don't want to sit," his wife rasps. "In fact, I want you out of here and in bed with me, like it is supposed to be!"_

_"Being impatient will bring you nothing but disappointment." Cloud snarls._

_"That's all you are to me these days." Corrin hisses._

The last argument, the one she's had replay over in her head, wasn't even real. But a dream. A dream that involves way too much suffering. It had played something like this. Corrin is injured, and her husband does absolutely nothing to help ease her pain.

She remembers. She feels. _She lives it. She is living it. She has endured it every day._

He stands over her in the pallid hospital room, smells of IV stalks and latex gloves invading his nostrils to a stench of incomparable heights. A low, dull, innocuous heartbeat dolls and dolls over and over again in his chest, while he pains at the soft sleeping of his wife in the bed. Thin sheets cling to her skin, drips of crimson dried blood stuck to her nose. She is so peaceful, pallid hair combed behind the ears, eyes shut gently while the chest rises and sinks with easy breaths.

Time ticks by slowly. Five minutes' meld into an hour, an hour into four, four hours into a day. A day into three days. On the third day, where he is ready to leave, go and find that damn ring he left in that New York sewer, she opens her eyes. Radiant diamond orbs stare back at the hollow ghost of the husband she used to love. Where once she denied the truth, she sits up weakly, anesthesia helping immensely. Corrin groans, breaking him out of his glazed state.

Instead of crying, she replays her daughter's pained cries over and over again in her head. Broken record player. Stop. Repeat. Start. Stop. Repeat. Gun shot. Wail. Repeat. Stop. Start. Gun shot. Wail. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. _Repeat. Repea-_

Corrin sobs. Hard. She brings the sheets up to her face and screams into them. Pain flashes up in her leg and she yells in hell's fury at the damned walls, at her damned husband who is crying too. _"I'm sorry!" Cloud argues back._ They do not hear each other, the hurting rising up to unbelievable levels. Where were the staff? Why had no one run into their aid? Were they even in a hospital, or some psychiatric ward for the mentally insane?

They cry. All they can do is cry. He has moved over to her side, clutching a hand while sobbing into her neck. She murmurs evil thoughts, rubbing the base of his neck.

While they cry, Corrin imagines the blue bone beach expanse of a sky overlooking an ocean. She can hear the roll of the waves, the crashing of the water.

The president is remorseful, but the feeling still isn't as strong as she'd like it. She's had a dream, a long one she's wanted fulfilled and she knows it'll never happen.

They've never been here before. She's always refused to come here; he's always accepted her wishes. A single rose is gripped harshly in her hand, smooth hands and fingers crushing a fragile stem. The wife leans down by the gray tombstone overlooking the ocean, her dream, her imagination led them here... to their children's graves. The names are etched out. They had personally requested it at the funerals. Corrin places the rose down. She turns away immediately, biting back tears.

Her memories all break, and Corrin blinks. She's lost a lot of time. She's spent too many hours trying to help her husband.

She goes to leave, all wholesome, wholly real, when Cloud looks up at her, eyes bloodshot.

Corrin stills, just waiting. _Say it. Just say it._

"Honey, we need to talk. I think Syrenet is something you should end... it is..." Cloud swallows heavily. "It is killing you and changing you. I just want my wife back, the same sweet wife that you once were when we first met. None of this presidential shit even matters when you think about the big picture!"

Given all her credit, given everything the two have been through together...

Corrin Etch says nothing as she leaves the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! The next chapter is going to be #16: Etch and Gladwell Schism.


	16. Etch and Gladwell Schism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy explains his anger, Marth battles a close friend, and Corrin loses it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Syrenet, Chapter #16: Etch and Gladwell Schism.

The bar is crowded, and Roy is wondering how in the hell he has ended up here. The redhead looks around at the plastered ceilings and decides that it is best to keep his mouth shut and focus on what is ahead of him. In retrospect, there isn't much he wishes to think about or say, especially given his company. The stitching along his side and the cloth wrapped heavily around his leg where the stab wound lays constricts his movement, Roy kicking out and shuffling about rather stiffly than the flowing freeness of water.

His companion downs the second shot glass sitting in front of him, and Roy wrinkles his nose in disgust. He isn't a proponent of alcohol, but it shouldn't bother him more than it should. Shulk wipes at his mouth, and nods at Roy. Roy Arcadia is still stuck thinking about what must've gone wrong in the last few hours. Shulk picks him up from the hospital, and the man is shaky yet sturdy, but has a scowl plastered on his face still from Ike and Pit's distanced meeting from yesterday. The blonde quips that the other fellow _must_ be starving and he's to provide a supplement. So, somehow breakfast gets warped around in Shulk's brain to a bar, and that is where the two have ended up, crammed into a tight booth in the back of a dimly lit corner with a candle in between them though it is bright and broad daylight outside, so much heavy and sheen light streaming through the windows.

Shulk orders another three shots of gin and tonic, with a rather heavy splash of ginger ale to help down the acidic and bitter taste. Roy clenches his hand into a fist on the table several times as the blonde eagerly accepts his new round of drinks. He wipes a few stray strands of hair out of his face, and the redhead notices from his perched spot that Shulk looks a little bit paler than usual, as if he's seen a ghost.

A thick cloud of tension sits on both of their shoulders; the car ride over to the bar was stuffy and little to no idle chitchat passed between them, Roy being too angry to speak at supposedly who he thought of as his best friend. Ike and Pit he saw as another story, he spoke perhaps three words to them. Shulk? He's an entirely different matter altogether. He is supposed to be under Shulk Roberts's liege, the Alpha commander with his sidekick and it seems like the alpha male, the wolf leader, could hardly care about his pup. This is all too disconcerting for Roy, as a fire stirs beneath his veins. However, he knows to not bite the hand that feeds him, for surely if he manages to piss off a rather ticking time bomb that is his commander, Shulk is the type of man to stick the affronted party with the check.

It is a feasible sixty-three percent plausible. Exactly sixty-three percent.

Roy sits up and clears his throat, arm still stretched out, which looks rather odd. Shulk hasn't left eye contact with the redhead for the past two minutes, and decides to end the silence.

"I hear that you've become depressed," Shulk says, splaying his hands outwards on the table. "Is that so?"

"And how would you know that? Last I checked, you never came to see me," Roy locks his jaw, gaze murderous. "In fact, _none_ of you came to see me."

The commander narrows his eyes at Roy, shrugging complacently. His loss, he supposes. "Someone who already went and saw you beforehand."

"Midna."

"Correct."

"And why would Midna tell you that I was depressed? I'm more enraged at the world than wanting to drown myself."

"Her and I talked at the party that Corrin hosted. That _was_ two days ago, after all." Shulk gives another hapless shrug. He doesn't know what Roy wants him to do. Get on his knees and beg for a forgiveness that Roy maybe or maybe doesn't deserve? The blonde is known to not give out freebies to pathetic little runts who act as if they are entitled to something in the world without earning it first. He knows where the conversation is headed, but for the sake of the walls and other patrons, he'll let the bitter conversing steady its course. "We had a good time. You would've enjoyed the party."

"I wasn't able to join you. Sorry," Roy makes a face.

"Bad joke," Shulk raises a hand off the table, making an ' _at ease_ ' gesture. "Since then, nothing interesting has happened."

"Then what have you done all the other days where you were unable to see me?" Roy's tone is accusatory, directed, and Shulk wants to slap the vicious stare right off the redhead's face for having the gall to act as if he deserves some sort of apologetic and remorseful answer.

" _No one apologizes to me for all the hardships I've endured. All the injuries I have had inflicted, the emotional and physical scares from my wife's death... yet everyone mulls over the fact I'm more broken than anyone chooses to believe..."_ Shulk growls to himself, and then aloud, "Well, the day you were admitted into the hospital, the guys and I were out having a vacation for ourselves because I had a mental breakdown in which I wounded one of our own," he snaps. "The very day I got back was the night of the party. I was bedridden yesterday."

Roy picks his eyebrows up. "Is that why you look paler than usual?"

"Part of it," Shulk agrees, reaching for another shot glass. Roy stirs his iced tea and takes a long, satisfying sip. It is so much better than the placid and boring concoctions the doctors forced down his throat to help him sleep, or sugarless orange Jell-O that is supposed to replace specific nutrients needed in a meal plan as convoluted as a Syrenet employee's. "But, me being sick is hardly your concern. The reason _why_ I got sick, however, is."

"And what would the reason be?"

Shulk purses his lips, and if somehow possible, more color vanishes from his face leaving the blonde as white as a sheet, with a face almost more see-through than Lucas's holographic portrait. "Our president, the she-witch that she is, thinks that it is more than satisfactory to try and create another Syrenet branch out in Northern Midwest. Granted, it's Illinois, but I still think Corrin is making a huge mistake."

"Illinois?" Roy raises an eyebrow. "What city would we possibly be entering for a new branch?"

"Chicago," Shulk answers. "The mission will be in about four days or so, and by that point, you'll be recovered enough that you're going with us. And, because of Oklahoma City's amazing failures that Corrin loves reminding everyone about, she is making this project be a merged one between us and the FBI. It looks like Snake and Midna will join our hearty crew. Rumor has it Marth is forced to lead the mission, but truth be told, I don't think our commander in chief has told him. Poor man, Marth has gone through so much and it seems like Corrin is only hell bent on breaking him for all his service. But, again, it is a rumor, so who knows how accurate it is..."

At the mentioning of the two people in the FBI, Roy's facial expression sours into one of impeccable depths, with a brow so furrowed one could plant seeds in them. Shulk rolls his eyes at the reaction, downing the last of his shots left. It seems like he'll become a true alcoholic by the time he's old, withered and gray. That is, speaking if he makes it. "She just wanted to dig the knife in deeper, didn't she?" Roy hisses.

"Pardon?"

"Midna and Snake..." the redhead reiterates. "Corrin knows full and well that the two of them are partly behind why the situation in Boston went sour... and now I'm going to be healthy and joining them once more on a Syrenet mission? It's bullshit."

The blonde sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I think you need to cut this whiny crap out, Roy. And don't give me any sort of pissed off look, you know you're in the wrong on this. Without Snake and Midna, you'll be dead six feet underneath, with a tombstone saying he died in a moment of most panic. They saved your life whether you'd like to admit it or not. Midna couldn't very well do anything to save you before Snake arrived because she'd get her cover blown. You can't be that selfish where one person's life, especially in this government and fighting for the same cause, matters less than your own..." Shulk's stare is pointed, Roy shuffling in his seat awkwardly. The shadow of the candle wick flickers and passes over Shulk's face, igniting his diamond eyes up and there's a flash of an emotion the redhead cannot read. "Snake shot Link in the head for you. I get that you're also upset he never appeared in the hospital room, because he's director of the FBI. You can bet that his time is spent up. You're alive and well... sometimes the center of the universe will not be you."

Roy sits there, mouth agape and he's speechless. "I- I..." he stutters, but the blonde simply holds up a hand, waggling a finger back and forth.

"I wouldn't try, okay? Just... leave it be. No one is going to hear your complaining, lest do anything about it. You mouth off to Corrin of all people about any of this and she'll have you fired or buried in a ditch with your throat cut before you finish your sentence..." Shulk reprimands, and then he slowly begins to trail off, eyes caught by something off in the distance.

His friend notices, sitting up. "What is it?"

Everything hits Shulk in the face, all at once it is a wave of something he wishes to call nostalgia, but rather it is painful and scorching, driving over his skin like lesions of boils that burst and scald his skin. A wave of familiar, too familiar, blonde hair passes over a woman's shoulder as she steps out of the bar. The hook of her nose is too similar to that of Fiora's, and the commander of Alpha Squad begins to shake feverishly, shaking strongly enough that he shakes the entire table. Roy goes white, and he's looking around as if there could be something to stop him.

Shulk watches the woman exit the bar and he gets up, bolting. Wind and words rush by his ears as he chases after the lady, caught in the throng of downtown Washington D.C traffic during the midday, and he's paralyzed in the middle of the street when the woman turns behind him. Pearls and stars flash by in his vision, downing Shulk to one knee. The sky is too bright, and the lines all blur and obscure together. A peal of laughter breaks the silence, it breaks the silence like a cresting wave till every resonate note of the joyous noise rivets around the blonde's skull like a haywire bullet. Ricocheted bits of bone matter bounce and fly around, dancing in the breeze while the cacophony of chuckles drowns out all other sound.

The murmur of a heartbeat begins to take place of the other noises, ravaging and deadly. Shulk's emotions gravitate towards something feasible as the woman begins looking around, as if she's searching for something but cannot find what she's seeking. He tries calling out, but the cries choke in his throat, until he's spitting up sulfuric acid and biting down on harsh words that aren't helpful in the slightest. His ears are roaring with blood flow, and the dizziness will not cease until Shulk's skull is split open on the rock, festering around like ants that burrow into his nerves and wreck his endocrine system. The sky changes colors rapidly: a ferocious cardinal, a whimsical amaranthine, a decadent sapphire, a blinding halcyon, a turgid mahogany, a zealous sunburst orange, a flowing shade of carnation pink... the woman begins to blur together as if she's melting away into static, like a television screen's signal. He reaches out, and it's a fool's thought for someone to believe the commander could grasp onto the woman from yards away amidst a throng of people going about their daily levels. He's upset, Shulk is enraged momentarily, that no one is noticing him, no one is giving a single care in the world about the man falling apart in the middle of the street. What did he do to deserve this? A stupid little AI disk is nothing compared to the sins of his leaders.

Shulk whimpers, the pain is too great, the suffering has a mind of its own and it shall not stop until the blonde has reconciled with the past... he can never find the euphoria he wishes to receive if he lives in the ways of an old criminal... for what? For a woman's recognition? Certainly Shulk Roberts has far more better standards than that, yet he cannot seem to find any.

Blonde hair covers him akin to a field of grain, crumbly and tall where the woman's gaze pierces through him. Screams begin to disrupt the laughter and it's a precarious moment, a precious second in time that shatters into a million pieces. There's blood running down the streets now, running down Shulk's hands as he's twisting, twisting someone's neck, shooting someone's brains out just to reach this mysterious woman who for some reason is nothing yet everything all at once. He cries out, he cries out hoping, _pleading_ that someone is to hear him, but he's met with silence.

Someone is screaming his name, and it takes two slaps to his face to break Shulk out of the stupor he's in.

He blinks heavily, and the woman is gone. Fiora has disappeared.

Roy's worried face comes back into focus, eyebrows furrowed together, eyes full of sympathy and confusion. "Shulk?" he asks. "Shulk, can you hear me?"

The blonde shakes his head, looking around dazedly. The world is a burst of neon colors and drunken lust, and it is killing him slowly. "Huh?"

"Are you alright? What did you see?"

The word sits on the man's tongue like clouded poison, diluted but strong enough to make him feel.

"Nothing..." he says. "Nothing. I thought... I thought I saw someone I knew..."

He holds himself tight, and suddenly, as if all the blood has left his body, Shulk collapses to the sidewalk with a mixing of a sigh and a gasp. His head hits stone and then darkness.

* * *

Marth likes when the compound is quiet. Granted, he knows that there are indeed people working above him and below him currently, but for the time being, Syrenet Headquarters, in his own personal space that is nothing larger than a seven by seven with the man curled up in between two beds, is peaceful. No noise disturbs him from the upper or lower floors, and he can get lost in the fantasy tales of knights and fair maidens all he likes.

The bluenette takes another satisfying bite of his apple, going down to the very core of it and throwing it away expertly without looking up from the page. This is the fifth book he's read in the past two days, given he has had nothing to do over the last week ever since he got back from the cabin. Marth looks at his left arm, scowling, as the body part had come into his line of vision from turning a page back as he missed apparently what seems like an important name. The bruise sits nicely on his forearm, a ringlet circle of splotchy blues and purples that are nothing but mere reminders of Marth's problems.

A particular nightmare, one of four rather, had Marth up and panicking, caught in his own thoughts and demons of the mind where he is unable to open his eyes. He suffers a nasty tumble down a flight of stairs where he lands on his arm in a sort of wrong way, but nothing's broken. The bruise settles a few hours later, and Marth winces every time he moves the left side of his body. His head has stopped hurting since breakfast, and since it's nearing about noon, the bluenette feels like it is a great time to settle himself down in one of his favorite crooks in the entire building and read.

That is... until someone he shall not name moves into the picture, panting heavy and coated with a new glossy sheen of sweat from head-to-toe after a workout and sparring session. Ike unlatches the headband from around his head, opening the refrigerator on the other side of the room, and takes out a water bottle. He starts to whistle Yankee Doodle, going to take a sip until he sees Marth stuck between two of the beds up against the wall. Doing what he always does. Reading. Marth hasn't taken a shower, and his hair is all messy, bags underneath his eyes from a lack of sleep due to the nightmares and pain.

"You look like a homeless person," Ike jests, being half mean and half joking, taking another sip of his water.

"Nice one," Marth comments.

"Or someone who's tried dressing well and failed." It is all just harmless banter between the two of them.

"And you're a disgusting and smelly ogre who thinks he's funny..." Marth shoots back, flipping the page, and keeping his eyes glued to the book. He's having a serious case of deja vu. He just hopes that when this conversation is over, the two men don't find a Syrenet employee having a panic attack, and the other covered in blood.

"Wow," the taller man places a hand against his chest. "That may be the rudest thing you've ever said to me."

"I've said worse."

"Is that so?"

"Are we just going to do the same old-same old again?" Marth hesitates, about to close his book so he can glare at his best friend in the eye, but chooses not to, continuing to read and not keep eye contact. "I'm tired of arguing with you about the necessity of literature. How did the sparing go?"

"It went well..." Ike comments, running a hand through his slick hair. "Pit didn't flinch this time when I went for an underside jab. He blocked it! I think the nerd is starting to learn how to fight..."

Marth cracks a smile, turning the next page. He starts chewing on his lower lip, and the lucid taste of bitter copper fills his mouth like a basin, flushing a glistening ruby coat across the piano set of teeth. The nightmare rests in the back of his mind like a constant reminder that his friends are only temporary measure to help dull the pain of fighting through another day. He looks over at Ike, the man's breathing still quite rapid and the chest rising and falling. His best friend seems to be upset, however, as the way Ike has his brow furrowed together, hands closing and opening up to form fists. "What's wrong?"

"Huh?" Ike blinks, gaze flashing over to Marth.

"You seem upset."

"Oh... it's nothing," the commander waves off his best friend, finishing the last of the water bottle. "I'm just thinking about Roy."

"Oh?" Marth raises an eyebrow. "In what way? Like, just he's passing your thoughts or..."

"You know what I mean!" Ike snaps, and his face goes beet red, flustering and opening the fridge this time for a beer can. Marth rolls his eyes. Too many people drink in his team. Shulk rather feels like an alcoholic in a diaper for how much intoxicating liquid he consumes, and Ike can replace Marth with a beer can in seconds if the other commander starts to annoy him ever so slightly. Corrin's drinking problem is an entirely different matter altogether, but the bluenette chooses not to bother himself with those types of problems.

He decides that if he's going to try and have a civil conversation, being concerned about the problems of Dark Ages Europe will not alleviate tensions. "What, then?"

Ike's jaw locks, set onto something, something upsetting. "Pit and I visited Roy yesterday in the hospital. He got out early this morning, so Shulk went to go pick him up. Anyways... the redhead thinks he's the greatest thing since sliced bread. He's all pissed off that none of us have come to see him and we should all feel like we've wronged him. I snapped a little out of character and said that there are other people in Syrenet, who I have known far longer than him, to care about as well..." he visibly calms down. "Such as you."

"I'm hardly any of your concern..." Marth dismisses the courtesy with a wipe of his hand. It isn't anything he feels Ike should be worried about, for the man cares too much about enough as it is. The guy having a big heart is partially an understatement. "And... knowing you in an argument when someone ticks you off, you left?"

"I did. I stormed out and didn't apologize. _There's_ nothing to apologize for," Ike growls. "If he wants to go around, acting all bruised purely because we haven't sent him sympathy cards, fine by me. He should be thankful he's alive, but instead he's going to make his life a living hell here if he pisses us all off with his fangled bullshit!"

Marth raises his eyebrows in shock. He's never heard Ike say such a coarse word, and even though calling something 'bullshit' is not as vocational as using one of Corrin's favorite four letter word, f word expletives, the gentle giant that can crush someone's head who is Ike Forgenson swearing... it causes alarms to go off in his head. "That may also be the worst single word you've ever said. It also sounds like you've been beating a dead horse about the whole thing. Let Roy feel the way he does and then it'll blow over."

Ike narrows his eyes at Marth, not understanding the metaphor. "Beating a dead horse?"

His best friend's look is even more shocking than the first one, Marth's eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. "It means to talk about something and over doing it, like beating a dead horse. It's dead, and beating it won't do anything else to it because it is _already_ dead. You've never heard anyone say that before?"

"Not everyone I hang out with is as well-read as you."

The commander of Beta Squad shrugs his shoulders, frowning. He picks his book back up, and begins to read again. Ike narrows his eyes at his best friend, noticing the bruise on Marth's left arm. He shudders somewhat, the bluenette's cries of terror from last night still echoing inside his head. "How'd you get the bruise?"

"What bruise?" Marth freezes up, eyes dancing around the room to anywhere else that wasn't the other guy in the room.

"The one on your arm."

"I hit a pole. It's not a problem." the bluenette goes back to reading.

Ike places the beer can down on the counter and goes over to the beds, standing in front of them, crouching down so he's bouncing on the balls of his feet. Marth looks up, and a tension settles on his shoulders. He's a cornered animal, a trapped animal, because by the time he can try and vault over the beds, Ike will have him in an instant to sit himself down in the very same spot till they've discussed. "I heard a lot of noise last night. Some of it was you yelling things I didn't understand, and then followed by the sound of someone falling down a set of stairs."

"It could've been anyone else who fell..." Marth sniffs at the air disdainfully, going back to his book. Ike snatches the book from Marth's grasp. "Hey! Give it back, asshole!" the guy, who had just been reading, cries, trying to take it back, hands grabbing nothing but air.

"I'll give it back after you tell me what happened last night. Another nightmare?"

"There are far better ways to talk about this!" the commander grits his teeth.

Ike looks around the room. "I don't see a certified specialist or a doctor around here. Yeah, I may be acting like a jerk right now, but it's because you got hurt last night and won't tell me what's up. Not everything I do is against your self interest, after all you're my best friend and best friends stick out for one another. You sleep walked while having a nightmare, fell down a flight of stairs, and bruised your arm. Why didn't you wake me after you fell?"

Marth looks down at his hands, lips trembling. "I didn't want you to worry..."

"Worry?" Ike's shout is a tad bit uncalled for given Marth's flinch, and he softens his tone. "You got injured and you don't want me to worry? If that's the case, then you really don't know me all that well."

The bluenette rubs his shoulder innocuously. "I don't want to talk about it."

Ike's face darkens, and his lips crease together to form a grim line. He stands back up, tossing the book back into Marth's lap. "Fine. If you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to. Why haven't you gone to see a psychiatrist about this stuff? I know we've discussed your nightmares here and back for quite some time, but every time we near that subject you close off. You're only going to hurt yourself worse because of doing that. I-"

"Just go. Please," Marth starts shaking uncontrollably, clenching and unclenching his fists, swallowing heavily.

His best friend bites on the inside of his cheek, sighing. "As you say, commander."

Ike solemnly strolls off, and Marth watches him go, unrepentant, and he wants to cry.

Marth wills himself to cry, yet nothing comes out.

* * *

The president dislikes people crossing her in ways that aren't meant to be crossed. Betrayals she never saw coming, backstabbing incidents she never expected. Corrin awakes with a start, a feverish launch as she leaps out of bed, looking at the clock. The digital world tells her that it is exactly noon, and by god she's slept in far too long than she wanted. Though the world never stops to have a vacation, Corrin Etch likes taking the time to let herself relax. Her husband's words, her flesh and blood, still echo and reverberate around her skull, and they burn. _Syrenet is a bad influence on you._

She strolls into the living room, and her heart wants to crumple in on itself at the look of how things were arranged, everything all picture perfect and picturesque where a realtor can sign their signature in glossy lipstick. Robin is awake, strolling about and telling her secret service agents instructions, but Corrin cannot hear them. Mac stands obediently, patiently, and quietly over in the corner, dressed finely in a tuxedo, dark sunglasses covering his generally sunny eyes, arms crossed together. Corrin can tell that his face brightens immensely by the way he begins to walk over to her, but she strides past him, heart ablaze, mind crushed. She strides over into the other end of the hall where Cloud is passed out in his own bedroom. Corrin's preferred on special instructions that any vacation housing other than the White House have separate bedrooms for herself and her husband, in case one newcomer tries murdering them, at the very least only one dies before the entire house is alerted.

Corrin sneaks into his bedroom, grabbing his luggage and other items before stalking out of the room, hair a mess, still dressed in her pajamas. She tugs the wheeled suitcase out of the foyer and into the sunlit outdoors. Mac is calling her name, running after her, and she paces right up to the edge of the cliffside. The view is beautiful, but she doesn't give a rat's ass about the view. The president rips open her husband's luggage and begins throwing shirts off the edge, left and right she chucks them. A Gucci watch isn't spared her own torment, Corrin throwing it to the ground, and then taking one of Cloud's dress shoes, smacking the watch into oblivion before kicking all the bits off the edge.

Her blood is boiling. The presence of Mac and eventually Robin, who are simply staring at her in open mouthed shock, does nothing to end Corrin's rage. She takes a dress shirt, ripping it apart, button by button. A bottle of aftershave, which Cloud forgot to unpack, is torn away from its protective covering and shattered on the sidewalk. Corrin screams at the sky, and then lifts the suitcase over her head, throwing it as far as she could, watching it careen down the cliffside, hitting rocks below, and almost causing a car to swerve and crash.

There are a few other items still laying around, and Corrin begins to throw those off as well. A pocket knife. Their old engagement ring. Corrin lifts the last item, nothing more than a simple tie, over her head to vault off when another pair of hands latch onto hers, wrestling her gaze away from the cliffside. Cloud is shouting her name, and he forces her to look at him.

"What are you doing?" he shouts at her. "Have you lost your damn mind?"

Corrin gives him a shove, face seething red. "Do you remember what the hell you said to me last night? How dare you!"

"Corrin, you need to calm down..." Cloud tries going for her hands again, and she leans back, slapping him as hard as she can across the face. He collapses to the sidewalk and Mac rushes over to help him up. Robin covers her open mouth with a hand, eyes as wide as saucers. Other members of their secret service detail have stopped working, rather taking a moment to witness the Etch and Gladwell schism taking place in the front driveway.

She looms over her husband like a lion about to pounce on its prey. "All of my political career has been working towards Syrenet! And all you simply want to do is have me end it? Think of all the people who will be about of jobs! All the federal spending that will go to absolutely nothing because of my own husband telling me I should quit the very program keeping our country afloat."

Cloud touches the side of his jaw gingerly, removing his hand away, fingers dabbed red with blood. He looks at Mac. "Can you give her and I a few minutes to talk this out? She's uh... well... please."

Mac nods. "Yes sir," he goes to grab Robin's arm. "I think there's a foreign prime minister on the line for you inside..." The two rush inside the house, leaving Corrin Etch, president of the United States, and Cloud Gladwell, one of the senators of New York to argue and fight their way through a tumultuous ending.

Corrin waits until the surrounding vicinity is silent, and she can hear her husband's ragged breathing, the cut on his face steadily streaming a luscious waterfall of ripe ruby red. Cloud's wave of lemonade hair whips viciously in the wind, facial features soft and eyes muddy with an unreadable emotion that crosses between confusion and sympathy. He holds his hands up like a sign of surrender. "Honey, please just tell me what's upsetting you."

She locks her jaw, and glares at him underneath a veil of disgust. "I just want you to have faith in me. That's all," she pleads. "After the disaster in Oklahoma City, senators from all over the entire country called me and said that I should consider shutting down the program because of the violence and unrest it has caused. Only four senators didn't say anything. Either they thought it was alright to continue, or they didn't want to say anything. You were one of them. So, I thought, as my _husband_ , you'd support my decisions. You didn't speak to me in private about it at all when I announced the Chicago mission, nor did you really talk about it at all yesterday. You just dropped the bomb on me that maybe Syrenet isn't good for my health."

He runs a hand through his hair, almost breaking into a nervous chitter, a laugh of senile proportions. "Not healthy for you? Corrin, you just chucked my entire suitcase and everything in it off a cliff because my concerns about your well-being interfere with work! That sounds quite unhealthy to me."

"I'm putting the well-being of this nation in front of me, like any president should... and that's wrong?" Corrin shakes her head dismissively.

"I didn't say anything about that," Cloud argues. "That's your _job,_ Corrin."

"Then how come you're acting like it's a problem?"

"I'm _not_ ," he winces. "I swear to you that I'm not criticizing you, Corrin."

Corrin closes her eyes and thinks of a time when she was a lot younger. Her father's crouched figure comes into view, and he's placed a cold hand against her face while she shudders against it, spirals of mixed signals flashing throughout her body. How could a man who was so cruel be so kind and loving? She didn't understand it at the time. And it is why, when Corrin Etch watches her father die on the hospital bed, the tears are not salty and bitter, but satisfying and warm, a depth of hatred she's never understood before. Her father never truly believed in her on anything, denying her chance in the world to make a name of herself, but all of that was for naught as she rose higher than anyone expected, with a faithful and dutiful team at her side the entire way.

She opens them and exhales. "My father never believed in me when I was younger. He doubted my decisions, my plans, my future... every single step of the way he'd argue tooth and nail over what I wanted to become. My father was cold enough to rip me out of his will and refuse to give me anything. No land, no titles or even objects because I couldn't be trusted with even the smallest of items. As if I could plan a bad 'future' for a pencil... as if the pencil would feel me breaking it or something stupid."

"I'm not your father," Cloud says, stepping up to her with a warm hug. "I'm nothing like him."

"I know..." Corrin bites her tongue, because she really wants to say that he _is_ like her father, a mean and decrepit old man with shortening grey hairs and a sarcastic white smile that bites for whatever scent of flesh it can get its hands on. She shudders in her husband's grip. "But... you saying that, it just... you made me feel like he did all those years ago when I simply didn't matter."

"Don't worry about that now," he admonishes, placing a warm hand against her cheek. Cloud kisses her forehead. "You are a much better person than him, anyways. I'm only worried because I don't want your actions, while they'll seem harmless and good for the betterment of this world, to come back and be worse than what anyone expected. I don't want to see you hurt."

She smiles and hugs him again. "I'm sorry. For... uh, for throwing your stuff off the cliff..."

"It's just stuff," Cloud smirks. "Expensive stuff, but stuff all the same I suppose." Luckily, for the blonde senator, he had another watch with him by his bedside and he glances at it. "You and I must've been wasted. It's past noon and we've got to get back to the White House. Or... at least, you do. I have an informational meeting with a few other senators who are in town."

He takes her hand and the two of them walk back into the house together. Cloud lets Corrin inside first.

She lets her thoughts wander, one of her favorite activities as of late. Her father's broken stare glares back at her, when she looks into his dead gaze, it seems as if the man who brought her into this world is mustering up all the rage in his feeble body that he can surmount, and throwing it at her in one nasty, withered ball of emotion. Corrin stares dead ahead, simply ignoring Robin and Mac's still slightly perturbed stares. All the president wants is to drown herself in a vat of vodka, but since she shattered one of the last glasses she had because of Roy's AI Unit's stupid mistake, it looks like she'll go straight for the bottle.

Corrin's skin is clammy and cold at the thought of her father. As he knows with his dying last words, her name was lacing his lips before the light vanished, it is all the more satisfying to think about. Everyone else in her family, or at least the ones still alive, or those still sentient enough to _think_ to begin with, like imagining that Corrin Etch's father died thinking of his daughter. All the missed conversations about boys and prom, about the awkward glances over dinner tables at Thanksgiving, all the not wanted yet necessary arguments that built their character... yet she knows the truth and smiles to herself every time she thinks about it. Her father very well died with her name on his lips, but not in any joyous or remorseful means.

She had been his downfall, and Corrin Etch rivaled in it.

Cloud reaches up on the ledge above him over the door to grab the keys. He locks the door and turns around, clapping his hands, rather effectively greeting the staff of their mansion.

However, there's one detail he missed. When Cloud Gladwell turns away from his wife, he always forgets to see.

He always forgets to see the wicked smile dancing across her lips as she fantasizes about his doom, and her crowning, glorious moment of victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! Please comment! I would really love some feedback so far on what you guys think of the story so far. I'll see you all for Chapter #17: Old Lace, New Blood.


	17. Old Lace, New Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shulk gives Roy a headache, Mac tries to divide and conquer, and Cloud goes through counseling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you guys are, Chapter #17: Old Lace, New Blood. Enjoy!

Roy wishes, now that he looks back from two hours ago, that he never goes out with Shulk at night ever again. He's currently crooked up in a corner of a different bar from the one earlier in the day, slowly and sluggishly tossing back a beer that he bought almost an hour ago and he still hasn't finished. The redhead watches as Shulk moves from person to person around the bar, cracking jokes to girls and asking men to drop their pants, and the antics of his boss seem almost reliant purely on drink. He finds it odd, though not too queerly, that Shulk's reaction to apparently hallucinating - which is what Roy determined had been the case when talking to him earlier in the afternoon - is to go out to another bar in the same precinct, drink heavily as he had been that morning, and let the alcohol do its work.

He snorts, downing another gulp. Roy winces at the movement, pain stirring and bubbling up in his leg, the stiches feeling as if they were ripping at the seams despite the fact doctors had constantly and in consistent times assured him that the wound would heal in a usual and good fashion. Roy wipes a few drops of sweat off his forehead, the air conditioner broken above his head; the machine constantly making whirring sounds that were a mix of a braying dog and a grinder chopping chickens to death. He actually has no idea what type of sound the latter would make, but he figures it'd be pretty terrible if this dying and wheezing air conditioner is anything to go by.

Shulk slides back into their booth, where Roy gets hit by a sudden surge of deja vu as they're once again stuck in a corner of the bar, dim lights, a candle between them... he is suddenly feeling afraid and uncomfortable. He downs another gulp to try and satisfy his beating heart. Black waves stretch from the vertices of the room, as if they're calling his name, and Roy feels partially dizzy. Shulk looks over, a crazed smile plastered across his face, a haziness in his eyes that is bright as a glistening morning fog over a Maine coastal town harbor.

"What's wrong?" he asks worriedly, seeing Roy's visibly woozy state.

"I don't know..." Roy admits, shaking his head. "I-" he shakes his head. "Nevermind about me. You having fun?"

The blonde giggles, curling up into a ball while the moment of hilarity passes, his laugh intoxicating and Roy has a sudden urge to quip a smile, nothing major. "Best night of my life in quite some time, Arcadia."

Roy raises an eyebrow. "Don't you have a wife?"

Shulk tosses back his shot, which seems to be a plethora of mixed colors and presumably mixed tastes, sighing with exasperation with the burning liquid vanishes into his throat. "Nope! She's been long dead!"

"You're wearing your wedding ring?"

"Am I?" the blonde squints, looking down at his hand. He shrugs upon seeing that, like Roy had said, a halcyon band with trusted words warped in a plagued fire resting on his left hand indeed exists. "Well..." he says after a few seconds, "It's not like I'm being held up by it anymore. Who says I can't have some fun?"

"No one's said you can't have fun, Shulk."

"Then what's with the sour attitude?" the commander tilts up the beer bottle, sipping away some of the murky amber liquid down his throat. It sloshes around the bottom of the bottle like blood.

"I think the alcohol is getting to your brain," Roy comments.

"In your dreams," Shulk smiles, eyes wandering. "I'll be right back... excuse me a moment..." Shulk then races up from his seat as apparently a hot and spicy brunette, Shulk's words or cross Roy's heart, walks in with cleavage poking through like the spokes of winter in September.

Roy follows his friend's motions and practically slams his head into the table. He's above going around the bar and asking someone to foolishly come back with him to Syrenet. Where else would he be taking a girl for a one-night stand? As far as he's concerned, relationships are out of the way when working in the particular business he finds himself delved into. From Shulk's own mouth, on the car ride back to headquarters earlier that morning, Roy learns of Mac and Midna's sex adventure in the bathroom. For some reason, a fire burns in his veins, and Roy cannot place a finger on it. He's spoken to Midna three times and each time had been worst than the last.

The very first time he laid eyes on her, he thought the world was coming to an end, and all of his plans were going to be thrown out of the window. Second time, she saves him by pushing him back against a hangar floor while she and Snake battle and try to save his life against Link's cronies. Third meeting, and so far the latest one in a six day span, she's sitting on his hospital bed and he wants to kiss her, but something sits in the back of his mind to tell him it would not be a wise idea. He's been down that path before, and he's not about to go right back to doing the same thing he used to do as an FBI trainee. Roy hates thinking of those days... womanizing had never actually been something he _liked_ doing, he felt he _had_ to do it with how the world revolved.

He bites down on his tongue in passing the time, digging his right hand into his left arm. Midna's face sits inside his conscious, perched on a perfect and pristine white stool, lace trimming a gilded photo frame with her kissed by fire hair and radiant eyes that spoke of a vivacious passion hardly replicated by anyone in the world. She's familiar, all too familiar. Roy wants to believe that it is because he met her on the Boston trip and she's stuck such an impression on him. Part of his mind floats over to the fact that she's an FBI agent, going through the same training he had been in, yet there's no connection there as he would've certainly remembered her face or skill set whilst training... as his trainers constantly praised the redhead for being the best. Roy Arcadia is certain, a good 110% certain that Midna Nye is far better than him and no one spoke a word of her to him. Then where would he remember her from?

Shulk collapses back into the booth, very effectively scaring the crap out of Roy, also breaking him out of his thoughts. _A penny for your thoughts perhaps. Would they ever work? If you paid yourself to think, how often would you do it?_ The blonde is haggard, a crisp red mark against his flushed cheeks, and Roy knows that it has to be of someone's affliction given the shape. He smirks at the Alpha Commander, drinking the last of his beer bottle. The liquid is gone to settle in his stomach, and the scent wafts around the bottle like a disease, reminding him of what he has, what he had, and what he'll never get.

"Where'd you get that?" he asks, motioning towards the indenture in Shulk's face.

The blonde grumbles a bit, arms actually crossed over his chest as if he's pouting. It's taking all of Roy's somewhat credible and unbelievably not torn up honor to not laugh in the face of his executive. He fears that in Shulk's injured and prone state of emotion, the man will take a pen and paper right there and hand him a pink slip. Could someone actually be fired in that way, for a joke? Roy doesn't get a few minutes to think about that as Shulk is answering his very question.

"Miss Brunette who really is a bitch," Shulk places a hand underneath his chin, animatedly fluttering about with pure venom lacing his words, "Thinks that slapping someone like me _just_ because I asked her what type of panties she wore is perfectly A-Okay. I gave her a piece of mind and she struck me again! These ladies aren't giving me any sort of let up here!" he reaches for another shot and Roy thinks fast, taking it out of his hands. "Hey!" Shulk protests.

"You've had four," Roy points out, dumping the contents into his beer bottle. He's had a single beer compared to Shulk's four shots and a very well made martini, which Roy tasted prior to letting his boss consume, as Roy is driving home and needs to be sure Shulk will only be a partial distraction to everyone's safe keeping, including his own. An extra shot won't hurt. "Plus a martini. You're already going to be cranky the rest of the night. I don't need you getting arrested for disorderly conduct."

"Corrin and Snake will just break me out."

Roy snorts. "Please."

"Would you like me to test this theory?"

"I don't think that'll be a very smart idea."

"Come on... it might be fun!"

"You're _drunk_ ," Roy says, exasperatedly.

"Which is the best time to get arrested, obviously!"

Shulk rolls his eyes and then begins scratching at the side of his face. He's stuck doing this very action for several minutes he feels like and when the blonde pulls away, his fingers are dipped in a scarlet, slippery and most likely fresh. Roy's face mimics that of a good horror film expression, mouth agape, eyes wide. The redhead rips a few napkins from the dispenser, handing them to Shulk. The blonde takes them begrudgingly, placing the napkins against the side of his face, the skin stinging against the air of the bar. He only notices now that it is very hot, from the sweat pooling in his sternum and dripping off dark and luscious blonde locks.

"Thanks..." he whispers.

"Do you do that a lot?" Roy inquires.

"Do what?" Shulk echoes, frowning. His head hurts and there's a buzzing coming from his pocket, but he ignores it.

"Injure yourself when you're drunk," the redhead elaborates.

"So what if I do?"

Roy frowns as if he's misheard. He doesn't quite understand the dynamic with everyone who works at Syrenet. It's like everyone enjoys putting themselves in a situation of pain and then gets upset over the fact someone calls them out on their bullshit. He hasn't picked it up on Ike or Pit yet, and to a lesser extent Marth, but he sees it clear as day with Shulk where he'll get hurt, sidestep the fact, and get defensive about it later. The redhead has no idea how to bet one's self, but he's going to with this. Shulk is to get upset at him for this conversation, he foresees the future.

He purses his lips together. "Don't you think that'd be a good sign for you to stop drinking so heavily at that point, then? Just think about all the harm you've probably caused yourself! It could lead to you actually killing yourself if you aren't careful."

Shulk makes a face. "Please... that's just your ass talking. As if that's going to happen!"

"Or you'll at the least do something you'll regret." Roy compromises, drawing the line in the middle. He almost scoffs at the thought of what he's done in the past due to alcohol, and surely there's enough in his past to write an entire memoir on. A book detailing the troubles of a Mr. Roy Arcadia drinking brings laughter to his thoughts, and Roy cracks a smile. He can see it now in limelight, a national bestseller on the New York Times list charting at #1, and it's glorious. ' _How to Tell He's An Alcoholic: Messed Up Stories From Roy Arcadia, Volume 1'._ Not a bad title. Then, a pause. "Does it hurt?"

"No," Shulk comments, extending his arm, examining it as he outstretches it.

"The alcohol inebriates you so you can't feel the pain?"

"Sounds like someone went to school."

"I'm a learned man," Roy gives the smallest glimpse of a smile. "Don't knock me yet."

"If you were so smart, you'd be drinking."

"I know when to stop."

"None of us ever know when to stop," Shulk whines.

"It's the difference between having a fun time or a stupid time," Roy comments. "I'm having a fun time."

The blonde leers at him, sticking out his tongue. "I don't see you drinking heavily."

"One of us has to drive home," Roy points out.

"We can walk."

"I'm not walking eight miles back to headquarters. That's plain stupid, Shulk."

"We'll be fine."

"I don't think so," he argues back. It feels like arguing with a brick wall. Roy grips his beer and shakes the bottle, the remnants of Shulk's failed shot sitting at the bottom. He tosses it back, closing his eyes with relish. A vibration disrupts the heavenly peace, and when he opens his eyes, Shulk is whirling his head around as if he's seen a pixie. Roy lowers the bottle, eyeing his friend warily. It seems like nights on the town with Shulk Roberts will be put on a cease and desist for the time being, if things like this continue happening.

The Alpha Commander reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. It's going off like crazy, buzzing in Shulk's hand with such ferocity he nearly drops it on the floor. He grimaces away from the bright light of the screen, halcyon tides surging forward and blinding him. The familiar jingle goes off, the vibration dulls the senses in his hand, and a morsel of sobriety falls back into Shulk's lap. "A phone call..." his voice trails off.

"Who is it?" Roy asks.

Shulk's face is hard to read. "President Corrin. It must be urgent. If you'd excuse me for a moment..."

The blonde races from the booth, leaving Roy all alone once more. He sighs in exasperation, placing a hand underneath his chin. The redhead looks around the bar and settles his gaze to stare at the clock. It reads somewhat late, around nine, nearly quarter to ten given the darkness outside. A few patrons still stumble about and their joyous banter fills the walls. Roy leans all the way around the booth to see Shulk outside, pacing and what looks like shouting into his phone. Roy frowns. " _I wonder what that is about... Corrin is probably being the drama queen she's known to be..."_

He sits back normally, head starting to spin again. Roy clenches down on his lip, a familiar taste pooling the basin of his lower lip. The world turns a few shades of rosy pink and vibrant sunset orange, the blood driving in nerve deep into his teeth, and he shudders. Roy opens his eyes, having shut them, and the odd feeling passes. He looks over at the clock. It's been about ten minutes since he let Shulk go, which he finds out. It only felt like a few seconds between watching his friend leave and the sudden spinning and clenching of his lip and Shulk hasn't been back.

An uneasy feeling stirs in the redhead's stomach. He reaches into his wallet, slapping a fifty down on the table and getting up. Roy gets up and looks outside the window, however unable to see anything as a few of the bar's patrons are up and mingling around the _Open_ sign where Shulk had been standing. He scoffs and heads outside. Roy stops in the crook of the door, and looks to his left. If there had been any sign of Shulk standing there, now nothing sits in his place, an empty hull of a sidewalk that remains as if it had never been occupied.

"You've got to be kidding me..." Roy groans into his hands, then running said body parts through his hair. He checks his phone. It is nearly ten, but that still isn't late enough for a few hours of sleuthing. Nothing can go awry, possibly, he hopes silently and foolishly. The redhead hugs his sides tight, now hit by a chillier and colder air than what had been stuffed inside the bar. He's really missing that beer, and he feels stupid for never taking the shot that he stole from Shulk's grasp.

The redhead looks both ways, unsure of where to go. Shulk's vanished, and he has no idea where he is.

He tries calling the blonde, but to no avail.

It rings four times and there's never someone on the other line to pick it up. He tries about six or seven times, pacing as he's doing this, and Roy gets the same result every time. He stomps his foot on the concrete.

"I can't deal with this right now..." he grumbles. "Alright. Time to find a blonde drunk." With that, Roy races off into the D.C night.

* * *

Shadows fall on the desk, open blinds allowing a streetlamp's light to cascade down in fluorescent tides of warmth. Snake prefers that his office be completely drowned in brightness, as darkness has never been one of his strong suits. The FBI director sits back in his chair at his computer, the desk facing the closed door. He is currently chewing on the end of a pen tip, gnawing away at the plastic as he's run out of Vanilla Wafers and oyster crackers hours ago and the current file plastered across the computer screen _is_ quite interesting; Snake has no interest wandering about the bureau for a good ten minutes just to crave his munchies.

The time reads 11:20 PM on the analog clock by the window, digitalized emerald blocked lines that change with the passing minute, and Snake is amazed by the beauties and intricacies of technology to a point. It is the same 'technology', he deems silently in the break room or in front of the bathroom washing his face, that he puts in his hand every morning. A silent weapon of onyx steel with bullets of fire and death that scream demon wails and insults, the blood he feels run down his hands almost is like another shirt to put on, or an umbrella that protects him from cascading waterfalls of cardinal liquid.

He yawns. Snake hasn't had a good night sleep since Boston, fearing with a slight hint of amusement that Link Collins's ghost is haunting him around the corner with a cigarette and a plate of pasta... or that wickedly devilish knife. The director shudders, a slight draft blowing into the room from the air vent opposite him. The agency is quiet. A few stragglers are still behind, and Snake groups him into that list. The nation comes first, before his sleep. Splayed out on the laptop, in pages of white paper and acrylic abyss black ink are suicide notes written by men who killed themselves before receiving horrible fates for betraying rebel groups out west against the White House.

Snake rubs his beard, stubble poking through in the jawline in coarse, rough patches of sandpaper. Syrup coagulates in between his fingertips, sticky and familiar in a sense that resembles blood. Nothing is making sense on the screen. From the looks of things, it seems to him that there are three specific operations happening in America detailing rebel causes and revolts. The Midwest, which attacked Oklahoma City, led by Sheik Braring, who had the meeting with Link a week or so back. The West, who ransacked a port of Collins Enterprise out in Portland... but Snake has no intel whatsoever on who led that attack. His eyes flicker over a few details about an eastern seaboard underground operation. As far as he's aware, and this is with his keen sight to not trust everyone who walks in D.C, the east coast is spotless, no attacks in any current knowledge being plotted.

"In this day and age that can change any minute..." he mutters.

A knock comes from the door. Snake frowns, looking away from the computer. He shuts the laptop, stuffing a folder into his desk. Corrin, two days earlier before the party, had told him to look into the rebel cases, and the information had to be kept highly classified. Only he and Midna were granted access to the case, and Snake gave Midna the day off because of her birthday.

"Mr. Karlo? Are you in there?" a voice asks from the other side of the door.

The director frowns. The voice is partially familiar, but he's unsure exactly who it belongs to. Snake rubs his chin, leaning back. "It's open."

It, the door that is, swings open and standing in the middle of the hallway is someone Snake Karlo never expected to see. Mac Sarasota, abashedly smiling, waves at the man across the room, a hand behind his back. Snake raises an eyebrow. "Oh. Mac! From the party?"

"Yes sir."

"What can I help you with?" Snake leans forward some in his seat.

"May I come in?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just shut the door please."

Mac obliges, stepping into the room. Snake notices that the secret service agent is not dressed in the typical black suit and white tie affair, no sunglasses adorning the other man's head, and not even a weapon, as far as the director can tell. He scoots back from the desk so he doesn't feel completely bunched up in a wooden box with the smell of manila and plastic crowding up the space.

"You're still working this late?" Mac asks, motioning for the chair in front of Snake's desk, who nods. The secret service agent sits, placing whatever is in his hand on the ground where Snake cannot see it. The director's heart involuntarily begins to beat faster, eyes trying to peer over the edge without making things too obvious. His eyes flash towards the person across the mahogany surface.

He's dealt with people too long to trust anyone after only a conversation or two. "Yeah... the FBI works extensively. Even if that means we catapult ourselves into the late hours of the night, too," Snake frowns. "Why aren't you at the White House? I know that Corrin's agents get the night to themselves if they choose, but I take it you're alone..."

Mac flushes, his neck dyeing a putrid and bubbly carnation pink. "I'm with Robin."

Snake's eyebrows raise up at this information. "Oh? Why is she here?"

"Robin had to ask another one of your employees about something she's been researching. A case that she's working with, I believe." the secret service agent swells his chest somewhat, all in a manner of jesting. "I'm her personal bodyguard."

"Personal bodyguard, huh?" Snake raises an eyebrow, amusedly, and then, to himself, " _Robin could do a lot better with someone like me as her bodyguard. At least we'd enjoy each other's company..."_

"She seems to like me being around."

"Have you asked her that?"

Mac flashes a smile, but there's a sense of hostility behind his pearly whites. "What's the case she had to ask about?"

The director nods, understanding what the secret service agent was detailing. "Ah, right. Robin had gone to speak somewhere over in Western Europe a few months ago... Austria I think. After her arrival, the hotel down the block she had been staying at exploded, some terrorist organization having a field day with their trigger finger. She... uh, even though Robin felt that she wasn't a target of the attack, she's taken it personally and likes asking my agents who are still helping the Austrian government with the incident on what they've discovered. She's donated once or twice for the cause."

The other man bites down on his lip, and runs his palms down the pair of khaki shorts on his legs. "Ah. She said she'll come by and say a word or two before we leave. I'm her ride, after all."

Snake gives a quick smile, but the emotion recedes as soon as it comes and he's full fledged serious now. "What did you seek me out for?"

Mac blushes a serene and deep purple, splotches of amaranthine color filling his pallid face. He tugs at the collar of his dress shirt, sweating just a little. "Oh... I- uh... I was wondering if you could tell me whether or not Midna was here."

This causes the FBI director to take a look at the agent that is a half blend between amusement, curiosity, and disbelief. He remembers quite well, given he spoke to his associate at breakfast just the other day ago, that she had a lovely and amazing one night fling with the very man sitting in front of him. He recalls seeing it with his own eyes, the way Mac blushes as he pulls up his zipper, or Midna's lipstick coating his cheeks. However, he's quite sure himself that Midna only meant it as a 'hit and run' type of deal. It's the woman's specialty after all.

Snake locks his jaw. "Sorry to damper your mood, but she didn't show up today. I gave her the day off. It's her birthday."

Mac's face falls slightly, and it almost brings a chuckle to the generally stoic man's disposition. "Ah. Should I just try tomorrow?"

"What do you need to see her for?" the director crosses his arms, eyes inquisitive. There's nothing threatening in his voice, as Snake ever since an issue in Tahiti knows to not make the other person assume you're onto them for any reason. Friends need to be kept a bay, and Snake isn't quite keen on calling Mac Sarasota a friend any time soon. He trusts that the secret service agent will have his back come a fight, but on details that don't concern themselves with guns or bullets or blood, he'll prefer to be neutral.

The other man looks down at his feet, where he must've placed the bag. Mac pushes his chair back and steps up, grabbing it. "I- I got her a gift." he says proudly, holding it out.

Snake raises his eyebrows for what feels like the fiftieth time that night. He has half the urge to close his eyes and laugh, but he's a gentle man when it comes to people's feelings and he's not about to just rip the carpet from underneath Mac like that. A patterned black and pink bag, one to fit a box in at the very least, hangs off of Mac's arm, and although Snake cannot read the insignia or fancy manuscript name on the side, he's sure that it is something girly.

"Jewelry?"

"It's from Victoria's Secret..." Mac begrudgingly elaborates. "It's just a present."

The FBI director snorts somewhat, suppressing it the second the huff of air is released. He chews on the inside of his already mangled up cheek. Snake has an idea where this is going, but it already looks like Mac's quite taken and flustered over the whole ordeal so he decides to play the game just a little bit longer. Digging the knife in deeper has never truly hurt someone unless it begins to draw blood.

"Perfume?"

"Begins with a P."

"Pottery?" Snake is now just practically talking out of his ass at this point, and to be partially fair, he's enjoying every single second of it.

Mac looks down at his shoes again, swallowing heavily, the color all the way up to the tip tops of his ears, insecurity rising up in his gut. "P- panti-" he tries to get out.

"You didn't quite finish that."

"Panties..." the secret service agent whispers softly.

Snake crosses his arms over his chest. "You want to give Midna... panties?"

Mac begins rubbing his shoulder innocuously. "Yeah... I know."

"Are they any specific kind?"

"Haven't I already said enough?" he begins to protest.

"Are they any specific kind, Mr. Sarasota?" Snake repeats, voice firm, expression solid and cold as stone, hazel eyes darkening. He's not trying to make the guy sweat, but it is working wonders as poor Mac Sarasota is falling apart at the seams from embarrassment. He should've turned down the hallway like a good little soldier and place it on Midna Nye's desk like a smart idiot, but instead he scours out the entire building to go to the kahuna who is in charge of every in-and-out of his agency.

"Lacy ones..."

"Lacy ones," the director accentuates, repeating the word. "You wanted to give my best agent lacy panties from Victoria's Secret?"

"Yes sir..." Mac answers, face pale. Snake has never really been called sir by anyone, despite it being commonplace respect. He understands where all of this must've come from, as it seems like the secret service agent is quite the honest guy who doesn't drink and thinks he can buy girls lacy underwear after one shared sexual experience. He wonders if either person in the relationship think they're dating. "I- I wanted to..." he doesn't finish the sentence, Mac doesn't finish it as he's already sick to his stomach, and Snake's eyes are staring into the essence of his soul.

Snake folds his hands together, sitting up and closer to Mac. "I figure what you're going to say, so let me just stop you there. Can I give you a word of advice, kid?" Mac nods eagerly. "You seem like a great fellow, and probably would be the best thing for Midna if you're following my drift. However, we're going to be working together in Chicago and lord knows where else, and I don't want my top agent having a distraction. Besides, I know how she is and Midna Nye is not a type of woman who'll drop her underwear for a show because some gentleman of hers gave her a pair. She's a lot harder than that to get."

"I'm beyond embarrassed..." Mac whispers.

"Better me than her telling you this. You can very well try giving that to her and seeing how it goes," Snake opines, opening his arms out wide before placing them on the backside of his head. "Corrin is making us have a meeting in a couple of days about the whole Chicago operation. Midna will be there, and you can test this theory out if you wish. I don't want to be the one to break this to you, kid, but Midna probably had a one night fling type of thing with you."

"More than likely..." the secret service agent whips his head back, looking at the ceiling in frustration. Mac is reminded of college, of all the dates he had been stood up on, from all the times the girl would call and call and call yet they never meant what they said. He thinks that Midna is different, she _looks_ different on the outside, and probably is someone extraordinary, but it looks like poor Mac is not going to get a shot at the love life he has always wanted.

"She stared at you from across the mansion's living room floor for a matter of probably only thirty seconds," Snake says. "She spoke to almost every single gentleman that night, Shulk included. Shulk's single, and if she wanted to go after a single man like you, he was right there. Midna is an amazing friend, Mac, but she's been playing the game too long that she often forgets how to be in a relationship that isn't fake or gaining her something. I would know. I asked her firsthand at breakfast a few days ago. Don't get too hung up on it, please?"

Mac rubs his shoulder innocuously, frowning. When he speaks, his voice is dismal and low as if he had been crushed from the inside out. Snake grimaces at the thought, knowing what he's just said, that possibility is not too far off. The secret service agent doesn't look Snake in the eye, eyes squeezed shut. "I'll try not to. Let me go find Robin... she's been wanting to speak with you, but..." his voice is impossibly soft and quiet, a type of quiet that gives Snake heartache and heartbreak from dating excursions years ago. Mac doesn't say goodbye as he trudges out of the director's office.

Silence fills in the empty spaces, and Snake sees out of the corner of his eye sees the analog clock shift even later, to a dark and dreary 11:40 PM, and the director feels the tiredness leech into his bones, scalding and agonizing pain of not getting enough sleep. He wants to sympathize with Mac, he truly does, but what is worse is that he empathizes with him on a far more personal level, every day it is the same pain as she sees her move and see her work and there's all these unspoken words on his tongue that never get said.

Syllables that never meet the light of day. Tears that never spring. Shouts of joy that never reach their peaks. Smiles that never stretch fully. Hearts that beat but do not work at maximum speed. Hands that never touch, fingers that never cling. A mind that never breaks, a soul that never feels and emotes till daybreak. Snake understands Mac's situation all the more as he works, for all the hours spent timelessly waiting and waiting for the right maiden to come riding over the sand dune in the Sahara, glistening in her armor and shake off a snowstorm. To flash that perfect smile where the chills run up and down his arms, and in the heat of the moment there's silence.

Snake considers reopening his laptop, but the idea is not enjoyable to him anymore. He feels worse, now that Mac's presence has fled the room, and as his future leaves with him, there's enough pain in the residue of the conversation to not make him smile. He gets up, straining his back muscles, and there's an euphoric rush of pain to that spot. Words come easy to him, emotions do not. Killing comes easy to him, sparing a life does not.

Snake Karlo knowing where he's been is easy to him, knowing where he's heading is not.

* * *

Cloud Gladwell appreciates one thing in his wife, if above all else, is that she forgives him easily. He's not so sure about other people and how they fall on their knees, begging for their lives to be spared and whatnot, but he knows damn well if the last hour and a half were any indicator that Corrin forgave him for the night before. He wraps his arm around her waist, holding her tight as they walk back to their limousine parked down the street from the expensive steak dinner they had. Their laughs rebound against brick walls and resonate in their hearts as joyous times and occasions.

She smiles as he places a kiss on her forehead, and for a second all is calm and perfect. Cloud lets the tension slide down his synapses like neurons, tingling sparking between his shoulder blades and riveting through his spine. His lemonade hair is slicked back, covered in too many swathe layers of gel that spark a fire in the president's eyes. Corrin admires that her man is a handsome one who gets even more fabulous when he decides to clean himself up. She is wearing a black shawl that covers down to mid thigh, and though there is a romper underneath, a stark blue with patterned pink flowers, she feels exposed. As if there's someone creeping around the corner with a gun, waiting, ever so waiting for her and her husband. Corrin is unsure exactly how strong Cloud even is.

He's not thinking about that at all, if he's to be perfectly honest with himself. The lingering taste of Chardon settles in his gums, pearly stained teeth shading to a vicious and sundering midnight black. The orzo and medium-well skirt steak remain on his tongue, mozzarella cheese and anchovy dressing acting as a second follow-up to the umami taste. Cloud feels his wallet shake with every step, packed quite thickly with bills and a new ring for Corrin which he bought after his meeting earlier that day. It sticks out like a sore thumb underneath the smooth leather of his dress pants, and now he wishes with a slight aftertaste of remorse dancing along his palette that he gave their waiter a far more generous tip.

Their presence is noteworthy, and luckily there aren't that many people out on the streets. The few that notice them either scowl or want some sort of autograph which Corrin has to reluctantly disoblige. She requests earlier that day with her entire personnel around that she and Cloud, from around nine to midnight were to spend an evening alone. They could allow a designated driver, and the White House was a good twenty minute walk or so from the restaurant, so she thinks they'll be perfectly safe. Mac's protests are cut off with a swift glare from the snowstorm haired president, and suggests much sweeter after that perhaps the agent could shadow Robin for the evening, as she knows her friend - a term that is thinning day by day with that damn woman's antics - likes to spend her time down by the park or in a museum, so Mac should practically be asleep by the time Robin Wyndel's tiredness is aroused.

Corrin prefers the loneliness. After making such a stint that morning, which gave her a sharp reprimand by her vice president, she goes out and rebuys everything she threw off the cliff. Cloud staggers to one knee after he comes back from his senator meeting with the pile of goodies, and the president is feeling sour to the bone. She doesn't forget necessarily, but she forgives and will constantly bring it up should she wish to dangle it over his head. She likes imagining it being akin to mistletoe, but with guns and blood and threats involved. Err... scratch the first two.

Both walk together in silence for a couple of minutes, hands linked. Cloud's hands are warm to Corrin's surprisingly freezing ones. Perhaps she is catching a cold, he muses, and the thought is stuffed away for the rest of the night. He likes this, just the two of them, enjoying each other's company and there being no dismal phone call or explosion to break them up.

"Thanks for tonight," Corrin smiles. "I had a great time."

"No problem," he says abashedly, cheeks turning scarlet. "It's a husband's job to treat his lady with the best he can afford, and clearly it seems I can afford quite a lot."

"Indeed you can," she agrees. "I don't even want to see how much I charged my credit card buying all your stuff again."

"I'm sure the market price lowered it extensively since I bought them. They're practically rustic."

"When's the last time we had a dinner like this?" Corrin asks, tightening her grip on her husband's arm. "Just the two of us? Out where no one can pester us? No phone calls, no Syrenet business..."

"I may have had a little less gray in my hair then, honey," Cloud laughs.

"Then what did _my_ hair look like?" she wonders. Cloud opens his mouth to respond with something snarky, most likely. "Actually, do not answer that question. Unless you want me to file divorce papers."

"We couldn't last a day without each other."

Corrin rubs her arms innocuously. "I'm having a meeting tomorrow with the operatives in the Chicago mission. Do you want to be there?"

He looks taken aback by this, frowning. "Am I going to be with you in Chicago?"

"I wasn't planning on dragging you into it, as this is the first time I'll be traveling with them out to the city we're trying to establish a branch in... so there's high risk involved. Don't you have to go back to New York? You've already been here near a week!"

"Then there's no need for me to be there," Cloud smiles sweetly. "Least you'll have Robin and Snake to keep you company. They should suffice."

"You don't sound all that hopeful."

"There's a chance," he snips back and the two laugh a hearty chuckle together. "There's always a chance for success, Corrin."

They walk together some more, before Corrin notices an absence in her pocket. She nearly freezes, rolling her eyes. Unbelievable. She's a woman who remembers nearly everything yet she's able to do this? "Dammit..." she swears.

"What's wrong?" Cloud stops, eyebrows furrowed together.

"I left my phone in the restaurant! I put it down on the sink in the ladies room and walked right out here without it..." the president whines, which is slightly immature, but she doesn't care. "Dammit!"

"Do you want me to go get it?" he offers.

She holds up a hand. "I'm not having you go and walk into the ladies room. It's not even five minutes down the block. I'll go and get it. You can walk to the car if you want."

He kisses her, wanting to argue, but she's perturbed by this, for some reason he sees it in her eyes that she's struggling to cope with the fact she left her phone. Cloud wants to reassure her that everything is fine, but he knows his wife and knacks like this bother her too much, and there's a futile reasoning behind trying to fight with her. He saw what happened when he told his wife that he worried after her health, and for how seriously Corrin Etch took her phone, the senator didn't feel like getting a case of castration to befall upon his unfortunate soul.

"Okay. Call me when you get your phone, and I'll walk back with you." Cloud hugs her tight, Corrin smiling in the tweed warmth of his jacket, the feeling of home resonating inside his chest as she hears his heart beat. _Thump, thump. Drum, drum._

He watches her race off into the night as fast as her high heeled feet could carry her. Cloud leans back against the side of a building, whistling some tune he's heard a thousand times but is unable to recall exactly what it is. Cloud closes his eyes for a few moments, which only feel like seconds until he hears someone shouting. The senator cracks an eye open and sees someone running at him from his left, darkness shrouding him. He tenses, on guard, but the tension goes lax when the stranger is revealed to be nothing more than a ten year-old child, at the very least.

"Mister, please!" the boy shouts, running up to him. Cloud's eyes fill with an emotion that can be only sympathy. The lad catches up to Cloud, obviously in distress, hair a mess, cheeks tear stained with a red tint hinted between them. "Please! You've got to help me, please help me!"

"What's the matter?" he asks, voice strong and urgent.

"My mother..." the boy blubbers out, lower lip beginning to tremble, tears straining out further with his cries becoming weak at every croak. "She collapsed and she doesn't have a phone! I don't know what's wrong with her. Please... she collapsed in the alley way near our house..." he pleads. Cloud, for a split second wants to disbelieve the boy. If he's an actor, he's a damn good actor as he's making Cloud believe something is wrong. But, then the blonde pauses and takes a second glance. There's an emotion in the boy's eyes that look like pure sadness and desperation, a type of thing acting cannot teach as Cloud is quite the expert on the subject. He nods.

"Where is she? Lead me to her and I'll call 911."

The boy grabs Cloud's hand, sobbing the entire time. Cloud wanders for what feels like hours, which is only a minute or two as he's _running_ after the kid who is dragging him along with the ferocity of a tiger. He prays that Corrin finds her phone quick, as he's going to need her power to get an ambulance down in his area faster than someone could dial the emergency hotline.

He follows the lad as he takes him into an alley, which on second thought as Cloud observes it, isn't all too dark and there are houses lined up. A body lays in the center of the ground, a brick wall behind it, and Cloud's heart catches in his throat. There's too much blood pooling around the center, and the boy is sobbing and screaming at the body, which is a woman by the hair style, to wake up and help others.

Cloud reaches into his pocket to grab his phone when the kid whirls on him, a fiery look in his eyes. The senator catches a glimpse of this emotion - _son of a bitch, that kid, Cloud thinks smarmily_ \- before the lad has kicked him straight in the shin and judo chopped the back of his neck. Cloud collapses to one hand as he's sprawled on the ground, watching the kid drag the body away, which he now sees is a dummy dressed up to look like a woman. Smart and clever little fellow he is.

The senator gets back to his feet, groggily somewhat. His pocket begins to vibrate, Corrin must've gotten her phone. Cloud's mind begins to panic. Shit. What is he supposed to do? He's obviously been led into some trap, and there's nothing he can do to get out of it. He wishes now that he argued with Corrin to join her, as sometimes she succumbs to his will if he pleads just the right amount of urgency. A presence looms over the alley, lustful and darkening and it crawls all over Cloud's skin like bullet ants. There's evil in the lurking corners of the bricked wall, the blonde can feel it call to him.

"Who's there?" he asks bravely, hands curling into fists. He's about to go all macho fighter on whatever idiot thinks it is perfectly okay to jump and mug some senator of New York, who if people forget, is also married to the same woman who decides all of her citizens' fate.

A voice calls out in the darkness of the alley. "For such an amazing actor that you are, I'm surprised even you fell for that, Mr. Gladwell."

"Where are you?" Cloud barks. This isn't a question, but a demand. "Show yourself! Unless you're too much of a coward for even that." he taunts.

Something shifts in the far right corner, and a body steps into the light of a lamp above, amber hues glowing downwards. Cloud steps back voluntarily, a lump rising in his throat. The sleek shaft of a gun, a pistol more than likely, takes form in the hue as well, and it is aimed directly at him. The phone in Cloud's pocket begins vibrating again. He reaches a hand down for it, but the pistol is quicker, snapping to it.

"Try and grab your phone, and I go put a bullet in whoever is calling you after I'm done..." the attacker threatens, voice icy and cold to the bone. Chills erupt down the blonde's spine, and the tension settles back on his shoulders.

"I'll have you know that my caller is president Corrin Etch and if you-"

"I'm not an idiot!" the stranger roars. "I know damn well that you're married to her! You think that isn't going to stop me for doing this?"

"Just take my money... please," Cloud breaths inwardly. "I won't go after you, and I'll even lie to her for you. Just put the gun down and take my wallet. You don't- you don't want to do this." His heart is hammering against his chest, the sound of a snare drum filling his ears, and the beats are slow like the other gentleman's footsteps, as all Cloud can tell is that his attacker is male with a gruff voice that sounds hoarse from either smoking or screaming. Or perhaps a female with the ability to make their voice gruff as all hell.

The attacker bellows deep in his throat, and more gelid feelings spawn over Cloud's body. "Perhaps you aren't as stupid as you are naïve. Even if you scream, she won't hear you. I'll make sure of that..." his voice makes the senator think of other things such as ropes and his mind blanches at the thought. The stranger advances.

The senator backs up. "Think very carefully about what you want to do."

"I've already made up my mind, Senator Gladwell."

Cloud thinks of a sunflower field, radiant fluorescent flowers bathing in a halcyon sunlight that warps into a sunburst sunset of warm cardinals and orange hazes. He's holding hands with his wife, and they're happy, content, and she's smiling. He's laughing, holding her tight as the child currently swings around between their shoulders. Gales of wind blow through and the trio looks so picturesque, but now the child is a blue and black blur of blonde hair and sharp, angry eyes that seem downright angry at everything and anything in the world. He's never seen her, he feels, not as a full woman. Perhaps the girl doesn't even exist.

The scene changes to earlier, and he remembers standing there, frozen in shell-shocked stupefaction at his wife's antics with are downright ludicrous. The watch vanishes over the cliffside, and so does a piece of he and Corrin's marriage. He's always loved her, he will always love her, and even if his time is now, there's a heaven out there somewhere to look forward to with his wife. Her lips on his is a thought that nearly brings a smile to his face, but not here, and definitely not now is a time for such a peaceful and tranquil recollection of memories.

Her words are phantoms of candle wisps in the nape of his neck, consonants drenched in a warped and poisonous fire that leech at the skin. Corrin's hands are brittle and stalwart glasses of jagged ice against his, coarse and painful as they rake down his back, drawing blood. He cries out, biting his tongue and lucid copper fills his mouth. He wants to believe in her, he wants to believe in her mission, and here he feels regret for so many years with lies that come full circle. He's denied her what she's wanted in secrecy, and the poor silverette is to be left in this world alone with the thought of never knowing her husband didn't believe in her.

He likes to think he's a good liar, he wants to believe it with the very full sanctity of his heart. But the emotions deny him such the pleasure, as Corrin will sit over a tombstone, weeping into her hands that he is faithful and he is amazing, and he is dead and will never resurface and somehow it is all of her fault. Only if she hadn't wanted to never argue with him in the first place. Cloud smiles at the thought, and he's downright upset he even let himself have that moment of emotion to shine through, he's too precarious and too caught off guard.

"You very well know who I am... Mr. Gladwell." the attacker says in their real voice. Cloud's mouth goes agape, as the voice is familiar and it is a sound he hasn't heard in such a long time. He blindly reaches for his phone, and that's enough. The gun goes off, a bright flash of sulfur and fire which shoots out in a crimson and steel slate tide. The bullet embeds into Cloud's heart, and he's crying out in pain, collapsing to the ground. However, the gunshot is quiet as the spring's arrival due to a silencer, and the senator of New York falls back, a crack, a crack of everything he's ever loved and ever known.

His phone plays a voicemail as he lays there, dying. Corrin's panicked voice fills the line. "Cloud! Why haven't you answered me? Where did you go? Why are you ditching me? Cloud!" Cloud mouths a word, but he's unable to finish it. Before the second bullet embeds into his skull, he cries and thinks.

The senator of New York's very last thought is of his wife before he dies, the world exploding in a roulette of pain and blood and cascading torture as he dies knowing who his killer is in the flesh. It shall haunt him for however long his days shall last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that makes Cloud our third character - not counting Fiora, of course - to go down. Any idea who his killer might be? I will see you al again for Chapter #18: Shatterproof.


	18. Shatterproof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin frets, Shulk disconnects, and Sheik receives a package.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the wake of Cloud's death, what's on the horizon for our characters? Enjoy Chapter #18: Shatterproof.

Robin, now that she's looking back in hindsight realizes that perhaps going into a public place after the rumors she's heard from last night, is not the best thing in the world to do. The light banter of the coffee shop passes around the brick walls with paintings of old celebrities and products that highlight the old 20's, 30's, 40's, 50's, 60's, and 70's. The vice president remembers having the first taste of a Coca-Cola, age four, and the sweetness lingers behind years later where she's nearing her forties, and it still warms her heart.

She looks across the table at her new 'bodyguard', which is a simple term that Robin uses as an inside joke between her and her protector. Mac Sarasota is currently folding a napkin while she sits and drinks a warm cup of coffee, and the look in his eyes is bleak, ghostly and no light twinkles in the very orbs she recalls only twelve hours ago being bright and alive. Robin passes a warm thank-you to Snake in his office, because she sees Mac sulk out of the other man's office, and her heart worries, her mind scrambles, and now the vice president wants to focus on the wounded warrior in front of her.

It's two in the morning and she gets a call. Her phone goes off like crazy to Corrin's pained voice, evident from crying as the president hiccups, sobbing that something's happened to her poor husband, her Cloud Gladwell is gone, dead or otherwise. Robin keeps it in the back of her head that things may be getting sour, as the Chicago mission looms in her head, the event is to be a few days away and with a death or disappearance on D.C's hands, Syrenet's future looks worse and worse as the seconds go by.

The vice president takes a sip of the coffee, and the liquid burns in her chest, an insatiable fire that scorches her lungs and the organs burn, but there's comfort behind the pain and she's reminded of home. However - and the thought passes her with a grimace - she's not in a coffee shop with Mac to reminisce about home. She's got a job to do and matters to discuss.

"Mac..." she prods gently, seeing the distanced look in his eyes, "You're going to need to stop folding that napkin."

"I can hear you while I'm doing this," he responds, which seems completely uncharacteristic, and Robin looks taken aback, slightly, minimally, but taken aback nonetheless.

"This is important."

"And so is this, Miss Wyndel."

"Mr. Sarasota, put the napkin down," Robin repeats, and the fact she calls him by his first name jars something in Mac, all warmth and familiarity gone from her voice, the tone dipped in sour mustard, sprinkled over sandpaper, and thrown into a meat grinder. "I'm not asking you. I'm ordering you."

Mac blinks, frowns, and then crumples the napkin up in his fist, keeping the fist outstretched on the table. "Okay. I'll listen..." his voice sounds hurt, as if he's unable to believe that someone he truly likes is being just as harsh back, the sweet dream of Robin Wyndel as a matriarch dissolving in a matter of seconds. A permanent scowl settles itself to rest on the secret service agent's face.

Robin bites her lip gently, though it is harsh enough to break the skin and the bit tears away forcefully. She settles to chewing on the inside of her cheek, one hand firmly circled around the coffee cup as if is to protect her from the terrors of the dark and beasts that hunt at night. "Do you know what happened last night?"

He nods. "Somewhat. All I heard this morning when you were on the phone with the president is that something happened to Cloud."

The silverette bites on her cheek again, the lurid taste of blood filling her mouth, and the basin of her gums pools a rich wine red. "Corrin and Cloud both went on a date last night... and that's why you were stuck with me for the time being. Corrin went to go get her phone, and Cloud disappeared when she came back. She called him, heard a loud noise that she couldn't quite discern, and silence. She hasn't found him all morning."

Mac pales visibly, and his fist uncurls, the napkin falling out of it and it slowly glides to the floor. He doesn't bother to pick it up. "A gunshot? It'd explain the silence... so..."

"Or he dropped it." Robin provides another answer as she's sick to her stomach, thinking of yesterday and seeing Cloud's lemonade hair and his smile and she's unable to think of the senator being dead, it's an impossible though, but while it is impossible, _it's_ possible, but she's been through too much in her life to like thinking of negative possibilities.

"Robin..." Mac's voice trails off as if he's chiding her for thinking such a childish ruse. He looks at her with admonishing eyes, as he knows her better and she should feel ashamed. Partially. Perhaps fully. He tries to keep his voice even, yet there is a hurt and question in that, and he asks himself why would he feel something like that when he—when he does not even care about the bloody party, or why does he care about Cloud in the first place, he's spoken like four words to him. Robin does not say anything for a moment; just looks at him with those calm steady eyes. She feels uncomfortable under his stare but somehow finds it in her liking the attention the little secret service agent is giving her. She has drunk too much wine, she decides, because heat coils in the pit of her stomach, and both her neck and cheeks feel hotter than the Washington D.C sun. Unconsciously she starts tapping the chair to her right hip, her muscles going slack though she feels a bit nervous all of the sudden.

"I'm sorry!" Robin blurts out. "That was foolish of me, I get it. Cloud's either dead or disappeared."

"Would you rather have Mr. Gladwell dead or vanished?" Mac asks, after a few seconds of a pause, and the question is Earth-shattering. She looks up at him, eyes aghast and face drawled in, color receding until her lips are as white as a fresh winter snow laying down on soil laden ground.

"Excuse me?" the vice president retorts, voice disgruntled, facial features twisting like sinew scars.

Mac blushes up to his neck. "That's not what I meant!" he says hurriedly, waving his hands back and forth like a madman, fear filling his chilling liquid orbs. "I mean, which one is better on Corrin's consciousness? We don't want our president going insane, do we?"

She takes a few moments to ponder this. Corrin is no stable house, Robin knows it, she's seen it, she's lived it, she's kissed it and felt it before, so Robin Wyndel knows perfectly and one hundred percent that the silverette leading the nation can go tick tock boom at any moment. However, she tries thinking about it a little bit more logically. If Cloud is to have vanished in thin air and be held like a captive somewhere instead, the thought is more likely to sit on Corrin's mind forever and ever, plaguing the woman worse than before. Should her husband be dead - Robin's heart lumps in her throat at the very fathom of pursuing such a traitorous thought - Corrin cries her grief and finds a way to get over it the way a lot of people do. In their work. Is Syrenet worth it?

"It'd be the best if Corrin ended the project till either we find Cloud or Cloud's..." she's hesitant to finish the statement, so she bites down on her lip, counts to ten, says the Lord's prayer, and then utters it. "Cloud's murderer!" she gasps aloud, closing her eyes. Mac watches in horrified stupefaction at what is taking place in front of him. "I'm sorry, again," Robin apologizes. "I'm an optimist. I am. Even _thinking_ negative thoughts hurt."

"Then why are you in politics if negativity hurts you?" Mac asks, and the question has passed the silverette's mind before. "If you hate negativity, then you're in the wrong place."

Robin sets a smile on her face that is partially broken, and he finally sees the woman for who she really is; a benevolent human being caught in a spin cycle of danger and treachery with threats lacing her skin and peeling back her soul, where wrong one step is a silver bullet in her brain and everything can fall apart in an instance. Mac understands, from the very look in her eyes and the way her lips settle down in a quiver that Robin is constantly afraid of things going wrong, things sinking faster than Titanic, and some of it can be partially her fault.

"Sometimes the world needs a good politician. I can be that person," Robin lets out. "I seldom get my hands dirty."

Mac leans back in his chair, picking up the crumpled napkin off the floor. It is a dirty white rag now, covered in dust and people's footprints embedded into the tile and cotton. "So, what is our game plan now that this Cloud issue has come up? We abort our plans?"

Robin shakes her head in dissent. "Corrin never gives up. She's been planning this Chicago visit for months. Oklahoma City was indeed a disaster, and Cloud will set her aback, but our president is not down for the count. It just means we have to keep our backs covered, and be alert. Why would someone want to kill a senator from New York _unless_ their intentions weren't towards the president in some way?"

"I don't know, Robin. I wish I could answer that. But I can't."

He can't, and the vice president knows this. A tear falls from her cheeks, and she's up, giving Mac a ten to pay for their coffee, and she's bustling out into the light.

It's time for Chicago to begin.

* * *

Shulk hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. He inhales deeply, air flooding into his lungs. The tension melted away like wax on a candle stick, and the briefing room becomes lighter, banter passing gently over his ears as he sees Snake embrace Robin and Mac who walk in later than they're supposed to. Ike, Marth, and Pit are sitting over in one of the corners, chatting, and the blonde knows that there is something circling in their brains, like clockwork and broken machinery together making an oily mess. Roy and Midna speak in hushed tones on the other side of the corner, and all Shulk has for company is Lucas, the AI Unit and his disk placed on the table, Lucas sitting 'crisscross applesauce' on the disk, highlighted by a blue aura, hands levitating upwards, eyes closed.

"What are you doing?" Shulk asks gruffly after a few moments of silence. "Don't you know how silly you look?"

Lucas opens an eye, and the commander of Alpha Squad realizes just how much he's missed speaking to his voice inside his head, to see his true best friend actually moving about where he can see him. Ness's face still is stuck in Shulk's eyes whenever he closes them, a wave of midnight hair swooping down on a raven's wing, soulless orbs that speak of betrayal and death, and Shulk's blood runs cold. "I am meditating. Do not speak to me, it breaks the silence."

"Everyone's talking around you," the blonde points out. "And I'm the loudest voice you hear?"

"You're the only one talking to me. So, you're the only one I'm hearing."

Shulk shrugs, mutters underneath his breath about children being too damn weird, and goes back to thinking of before. Of Corrin, which is the topic centered in his brain.

Shulk is Corrin's mind-numbing ecstasy.

He really isn't, in hindsight, he realizes with a second thought. The blonde feels it though, stirring beneath his eyelids like cinder blocks that Corrin gives him sideways glances over glasses over Chardon and Merlot, where murky wine spills into carpets, and her glare musters a pure hatred in him. Shulk Roberts has not felt pure anger and an incorrigible rage since he and Fiora's wedding night, but he hates thinking about it. It's broken and nasty, yet gorgeous, and he's unable to comprehend why this is the case.

Shulk is Corrin's teenage nervousness.

Once again, this is not true. Shulk is the warped version of Corrin Etch, the blonde comes to terms with one drunken evening in the tub where lukewarm water rises up to his elbows while he's still dressed in a suit. The lapels stink of muck and mildew, Shulk's throat on fire, his belly aching, and the dead whore in the bedroom a forgotten speck of dust in a whirlwind inside a dust devil. He's tired of being used, but he still has no idea if he is or isn't being taken advantage of. Shulk Roberts is Corrin's failure. She's tried shaping him and he's a molded lump of clay melted down by heat and hatred, a pain that he's not successful, he doesn't have the hot spouse, or the sports car, or a political career. Instead, he gets the worst scrapings from the table, the dead spouse, a dingy surfboard, and a lifetime dedicated to black rifles manufactured by Anubis himself.

Shulk is Corrin's anxious expectancy.

" _Expectancy to what?"_ he thinks to himself. To provisions at the gates of heaven? Shulk likes, on days when he is younger and had time off, to go for drives around the east coast and piss off a cliff at every rest stop near the ocean he could. The blood flows through his veins, gives him life, oxygen, a reminder that he's single, alone and yet with company, and there's a mission to complete one day, somewhere, for the greater good, for the spacious and honorable red, white, and blue. Fiora sits in his skull like an ant, a disease that slips into his ear similar to an amoeba from a hot spring, but it's a disease he does not want to get rid of, a pain he needs to thrive off of, a love that he hopes consumes him one day. He's dishonored his words to his wife too many times, but she forgives him in his dreams until she drives the knife straight into his heart. Shulk has woken up in a cold sweat more than once on several occasions.

Shulk is clay. _Her_ clay.

He's confused. Is he Fiora's, or is he Corrin's? Shulk has felt an attachment, though barely hanging on, to his dead wife, the casket grim and black because he took it out of the sodded Earth and hid it somewhere. The anguish in his heart lingers on moments of bliss and pure white, supernovas and stars hanging underneath lusted curtains and closets where Fiora's ghost can no longer haunt him. His tears stay fresh on his skin, moistening parch feelings that tickle the back of his throat, an oasis of unquenchable thirst, and Corrin does not provide that. Corrin provides a never ending hunger. A hunger to climb the ladder that is chaos, to stare at the pit that is order down below, and Shulk Roberts cares, he cares in the end to be someone who made a difference for the better because the American people asked him to do so.

Shulk is Corrin's embarrassment. He wants to cry.

It's been set out since day one, he knows it as the chilled whispers linger down his back and crack into his spin, seeds of torment and an eternal abyss of regret and revenge that worms out in times of desperation. Words only mean so much to Shulk, the times he needs them is in actuality never, as a beer bottle or curved glass can resemble so much. He slides his hands up, he slides them down, and he forgets all that is there when the bottle fills and fills, and Shulk Roberts wishes he never met Syrenet in the first place.

Shulk is Corrin's downward spiral.

He knows it. He's always known it. From the very first day they met, when they pass hands over poker cards, as the jangling of olive straws against martini glasses clash with the hustle and bustle of the casino. Golden fingers link together, coins rattle in pockets, and Shulk has his fate laid out from day one. With Fiora dead, there's a hole. Who fixes the hole? It's Corrin. It's always been Corrin Etch. The two are made for each other, as old men with squinty eyes say, closing dusty books. That they're bread and butter and cotton and gin and yin and yang... until Shulk Roberts is the reason why Corrin will meet her downfall.

The folder slapping down on the table startles him, and when he regains his composure, everyone is staring at him. Corrin's in the middle of the table, eyebrows furrowed, and an embarrassing heat crawls onto Shulk's face, his brow redder than Midna's scarlet letter hair.

"Sorry..." he mutters. "I was... I was just thinking."

Corrin looks straight through him, eyes narrowed, and he knows she doesn't believe him, but that he's thinking of her in more ways than one. She's unsure whether to be sick or grateful someone at the very least pays attention to her. Shulk examines the room, counting everyone who is present, from left to right in clockwise order starting with the blonde himself. Shulk, Lucas, Roy, Midna, Mac, Snake, Robin, Corrin, Pit, Marth, Ike, and back to Shulk himself. Eleven people on one mission, ten technically speaking as he always considers Lucas a person but others, as he knows the president has made it very well known, does not.

The silverette clears her throat and smiles. "Thank you all for being here on time. I'm sorry for having run a little bit late, but this one senator out in Wyoming would not let me off the phone. I'm-"

Pit cuts her off, and if looks could kill, the technician would have his white wings strangling him till nothing remained but a curl of mahogany hair where he once stood. "I'm sorry about Cloud, we all are. I just hope-"

"You shall hope for nothing," Corrin snaps, eyes flashing towards Pit who jumps. Shulk sees that the president's hands are shaking, and they curl as if they want to be around the technician's throat which is not too far off where the blonde wants his hands to be at times. "If anyone mentions my husband to me without me prompting him, I send you back to D.C and terminate your job position immediately. I do not want to discuss Cloud, and that's final. Do I make myself clear?" Her gaze is directed at the current brunette who nearly pees his pants from her viciousness.

"Yes ma'am..."

"What's he doing here for?" she then asks, eyes looking at Shulk, her question regarding Lucas. The AI Unit, who had stayed sitting for the whole two minutes after the president's arrival, stands with his chin jutted out, a defiant look in his eyes, and there's a brilliance in him that cannot be understated.

Shulk's throat is on fire. "He's here to be briefed. He has any right to listen as much as we do."

"I don't see Marth, Ike, or Roy's AI Units here," Corrin points out. "Don't you think it would be fair for them _all_ to be here, commander?"

To the blonde's surprise, Ike speaks up. "None of us have a connection to them like Shulk does. Lucas is Shulk's best friend, through and through. He's been with him the longest, after all."

Lucas waves back at Corrin, who is standing there nearly petrified out of mortification, but done in some other way than being humiliated as she's ashamed her power is undermined. "Hello!"

"Hi," Corrin mutters, and her gaze is directed downwards, guilt running across the top of her hands and stabbing at her heart with infected knives, syringes, and needles.

Snake is next to speak. "A lot of us in here actually know what this meeting is for. So, you might as well spit it out Corrin."

She locks her jaw, looking at him with a coldness only described as heartlessness. To the FBI director's credit, he does not flinch, instead raising an eyebrow, expecting her to just say a comeback as he's had a terrible day thinking of last night and his dismissal to Mac's misconstrued feelings, coming to terms with his own, and then being looked at as if he knew something about Cloud's misfortune.

The president grimaces, claps her hands together, and spills the beans. "In two days time, the ten of us in the room along a few other security agents will be going to Chicago to start a new Syrenet branch." The responses almost come flooding in immediately after Chicago leaves her lips, for it is the matter of predictability in knowing what comes next.

"Don't you think we should wait till this Cloud thing blows over?" Mac blurts, completely forgetting what his _boss_ had just said moments earlier.

"Holy shit, Shulk wasn't lying to me..." Roy gives a nervous laugh.

"I don't think this is a good idea anymore..." Robin chews on the bottom of her lip nervously.

Pit's reaction is strange, as he tips his head back and lets out a laugh. Ike's is angry, full of vitriol and blackness. "If you say what I think you're going to say next, I swear it. You. Can. Count. Me. Out!"

Marth's takes the gold, takes the cake, gets the drum beat, the award for best acting, and his face goes pale like a corpse. "You're serious? Are you shitting me Corrin? After the disaster in Oklahoma, you just want to go and try again? It hasn't even been that long!"

Corrin slams her hand down on the table, and everything goes silent. Like Fiora and Shulk's wedding, the blonde who's wife is dead, recalls quietly, with a smirk. "SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!" The voices die as soon as they came up, Marth caught halfway between a curse, and the f word slips out, leaving Ike completely red in the face. Mac scowls at the cursing and nearly raises his voice to let the bluenette have a complete piece of his mind. "Yes..." Corrin says after a moment of very much needed silence, rage dripping off every syllable. Consonants and vowels burn into hisses from a venomous snake, the venomous snake with emerald eyes and a snowstorm for hair. "We are going to Chicago. Now, before you all jump down my throats, you will, _one_ by _one_ tell me why it's a good idea or a bad idea, and then I'll give you my reasoning."

Pit's first. "You know what happened last time we tried. What if something goes wrong and we lose even more of us?"

Followed by Marth. "Ike promised me that you wouldn't be sending me on a mission after Oklahoma, and now we're all wringed together in this doomed, prophetic mission of yours?"

Ike brings up the rear. "You gave me your word Madam President! Does that mean nothing to you?"

Shulk shrugs, a constant light twinkling in his eyes. "You made me vomit at dinner over the news, and your intentions still are lost to me, so I suppose I do not care either way."

Lucas pumps a fist in the air. "I haven't been in action for months! This sounds like fun! When do we leave?" Everyone, including Corrin, stares at the AI Unit with a fascination between confusion and terror, the blonde looking around, a stupid grin plastered on his cheerful face, but he's enjoying the spotlight.

Roy shakes his head in disbelief. "Midna, Snake, and I _just_ got back from a mission in Boston, and you just want to send us on another? I almost died had they not been there, and I'm pretty sure my wounds require resting. Not getting back in the action and nearly losing my head."

Midna nods. "I agree with Roy. Can't this wait?"

Snake, as the voice of reason, which he knows he is with a rugged sigh, rubbing his beard, elaborates. "I spoke to Cloud at the dinner party, Corrin. Syrenet is important, it's practically your child, but you also have nine other lives to consider. Cloud told me, ordered me rather, that when he was to be back up in New York away, that I'm to keep you safe. I can't be so sure it's possible not having you get hurt in hostile territory out there."

Mac, who realizes he let the FBI director, scowls and buts in. "This doesn't feel like the best time to do this... and that's just me."

Robin is last, and Shulk sees in the vice president and look of being lost, a gaze he's replicated time and time before where nothing remains but a cold husk that stings and stings and darkens wherever it gets even a morsel of light. Her words are haunting, to Shulk at the very least. "I don't want this becoming bigger than it needs to be, Corrin. Syrenet isn't meant to save America, only mend it."

Silence washes over the group, and for a minute, the commander of Alpha Squad thinks that everyone is about to be executed, or Corrin as the benevolent woman she is will pull an April's Fool out of nowhere, even though that thought has not passed his mind and he's grateful that it hasn't. The silverette nods her head at everything being said, and it hits him that Lucas is the only one agreeing to go on the Chicago mission. Surely if...

Corrin runs a hand through her hair, sighing heavily. "Syrenet is meant to be a technological aid to cities that need economic repair. I am mending these places, which connects our country nationally, so it's healing itself. The Midwest does not look our operation, and while Syrenet is a failure in Oklahoma City, we as an organization cannot simply give up and let one setback be the end of us! I very well cannot connect the East and West without unifying the Midwest as a joining branch between us. No matter where we go, Syrenet is going to be resisted, and there's nothing I can do about that. Cloud has wanted me to do whatever I can to fix the nation he loves, and this I feel is the way we do it. I'm sorry to you, Marth, and Ike for what happened when you two led a mission. However, you guys are still my best fighters and I very well can't have you all sit out. Roy, Midna... your help in Boston was invaluable. We cut out a cancerous disease that would've destroyed our operation from the inside out and then we'd all probably be dead had Link Collins succeeded in supplying rebel forces with weapons. If Sheik with her Midwestern forces wish to get in our way again, we raise a boot and crush all oppressors should that be the case. I'm sorry that things have not turned out the way I wanted them to when Syrenet became a main branch of the government all those years ago, but if we all work together... perhaps we could turn this thing around and it'll start to work! Okay? Are you all with me? I very well can't do it alone."

Shulk watches as the emotions on everyone's faces turn compliant, understanding in all facets of understanding. Marth leans forward, eyes squeezed shut as he does not want to look Corrin in the eye. "I do have one question though."

"And what's that?"

"Like Oklahoma City, a Syrenet commander leads the mission and acts as the main watcher of all interactions. Ike controlled the last one, and since he, myself, and Shulk are the only three commanders here... who's leading Syrenet into Chicago?"

Corrin bites down on her lip, and Shulk knows what she's going to say. It's going to be him, blonde haired and broken, to take on a struggling mission of making sure everyone stays safe, fighting back rebels, and the world is to not blow up on his watch. "You, Marth," the silverette answers the commander's question. "You're leading us."

Shulk almost laughs.

He didn't expect that.

* * *

Sunlight streams through the apartment and Sheik Braring is reminded for the tenth time in one day that she hates brightness, and sunlight is high among other sources on that list. She grumbles awake from her nap, the bustle of downtown Oklahoma City echoing around brick walls and cardboard boxes, the blonde bustling over to the window to pull the curtains together. Shade covers the wooden floor of her apartment, chills sliding underneath her feet, and Sheik shivers.

She hates sunlight with a passion. It's the reason she's stopped drinking, where alcohol hurts her brain to even try and utter the sounds that make the word. Sunlight means mornings with headaches, mornings with rumbles emerging from her stomach that rocket and ricochet the bed. Halcyon lights mean toilet seats, white yet messy, pale and germ filled, and then comes the bile, the chunks, and the nastiness afterwards. She dislikes retching into the grimy toilet, stars exploding in her head. Nothing's come out yet, but that's not very reassuring to her every morning. She moans and wonders if she'd feel better if she just got it over with. She'll stare into the bowl with a glare and fantasize, though her fantasies are drowning in greyscale on what she threw up.

Her dad's words echo in her brain as she shuffles back to the couch, wanting to catch some shut eye. " _Between veterans and diehards of the track, there's a saying. Physics doesn't care about your angst. And that's the simplest truth about life on the racing circuit."_

"And neither does booze..." Sheik titters out with a laugh. She remembers, back in college, that she was given an assignment by some creepy and moth eaten professor to write an essay on the pros and cons of drinking. Her mind nearly breaks in an insane laugh at the very thought of there being positives to inhaling toxins into your body, whether they be liquid, whole, or imaginative. The pencil goes against the paper, and Sheik Braring has never written something so passionate in her life, the words come together and she's some Leonardo Da Vinci of essay writing.

After she's finishing the rant of why alcohol sucks - Sheik Braring does deserve the 70 she got on the paper because she does not answer the prompt fully, in which she flips off her professor with a smug smile - she draws a deep breath and turns to look out the window not covered up by curtains. Anywhere but at the box. She does not remember hearing the doorbell ring back in the wee hours of the morning, and when she opens the door... there is this cardboard box with her name on it, a fancy manuscript of red marker definitely pinpointing that its hers. She cannot hear the creaks of the box against the rickety walkway leading down to the apartment's parking lot, and she asks her neighbors if they heard something. Nay, they all say, and Sheik is throwing herself back inside due to terror. Nothing blows up in her face, but she does not trust the box. She stares at it from across the kitchen counter, eyes barely peering above the granite, as there's a devil sitting there, mocking her, and she hates being mocked.

A word is on the box, written on the top in a luscious black ink, midnight and onyx swirls that create something she dares not read. Sheik Braring wants to try and take her mind off of things, try hard to not care what people tell her, but that'll only be the end of things. She gives up from caring what people think when she's twelve. Her father places a sniper rifle in her hand, disappears, and then her father is replaced by her mother.

And for some reason those eyes pierced the older girl, Sheik recalls now. She's stuck with the gun in her hands, mortified while summer winds blow her mother's hair around. Her body freezes and he felt like she couldn't move. Her breathing became rapid and no matter how hard she tries, she couldn't get away. It's simple, swing around and fire a bullet pointe blank at her mother, end her pathetic life and she's to never be questioned about motives again. Dark and foreboding, but it's perhaps the best thing she can do. Even as her mother gets closer to her, the older woman's head still cocked to one side, eyes ablaze; even as the younger - Sheik, that is - cocks the gun, her mind came to rest over the fact she couldn't do a thing. Sheik stares, the thousand yard stare is forever and true, shocked, at her mother. Why is this a problem? Should this be a problem? Her eyes are closed and her hands rested on both sides of the rifle, and it feels like home. It feels like home forever and ever, this is where she's supposed to be. Still she couldn't get away. Then again she wasn't really trying, she is never trying to escape her past, but have her past catch up with her. After a second of resisting her body motions, Sheik lets go and just relaxes and she lets it happen. The bullet flies out and dings a target out in the brush, and her pride swells up. This continued for about a straight minute until her own mind came back to her, and Sheik blinks, her mother still glaring, her mother still creeping up closer. With (almost) every ounce of strength she had, she shoves the gun into the dirt and wiped her lips, the gun having a kickback and busting her lip till copper coats the skin. "Oh my God... Sheik, what do you think you're doing?" she hisses to herself, glaring.

Yet, she's upset at something that feels good, it feels absolutely right.

"Sheik Braring! What are you doing?" her mother snaps at her over the wind, the bitter wind that is stark and true and loving.

"Firing a sniper rifle!" she retorts back. "What does it _look_ like I'm doing?" her voice is taunting.

And so again and again she pulls back the scope, looks down it and fires all night till the shells pool around her feet, her mother rolls her eyes, and so many neighbors have voiced noise complaints. Sheik files through all of them when she asks the deputy, laughing, laughing, and laughing some more.

It is here, now that she remembers the past, where Sheik sits up on the couch, eyeing the box.

She vaults for it, hands seizing the side.

The word, in the black ink of death and oil, corruption, greed, remorse, sadness, and failure, reads one word, the word she's dared not look at.

 _Revolution._ The word is revolution.

"Revolution..." Sheik mouths aloud, frowning. There's no tag saying who sent it, and that puzzles her even further.

She rips open the package, takes all the bubble wrap out, and looks down. Her mouth hangs open, the shock still running through her veins and hitting all the synapses she could find. "Oh my god..." she exhales, and then the world becomes a whole lot brighter.

It's time for a revolution. And nothing is going to stop her.

Not even Corrin Etch and definitely not Syrenet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh... what did Sheik receive, you wonder? Hope to see you all for the 'semi-finale' chapter of Arc #2: Rebuilding the Basics, Chapter #19: Robin's Automatic Army.


	19. Robin's Automatic Army

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin builds an army, Snake gives Roy some advice, and Shulk becomes a father for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 2nd longest chapter so far up to this point... hope you guys enjoy Chapter #19: Robin's Automatic Army.

The stunned silence after Corrin's revelation to the group hangs in the air precociously, like molasses slowly dripping off a spoon at a snail's pace till eventually every word sinks in deep. Marth is looking at the president, face angled in shock and pain, other unreadable emotions that is starting to make Ike worry. Everyone waits with bated breaths for a reaction, but all Corrin is doing is trying to move on by pulling out folders and passing them around. Snake's face is priceless, as he's known many of the Syrenet commanders for quite some time and has his own few opinions on them to pass over, and it's stinging in deeply.

Roy stutters out a nervous laugh, head cocked to the side, but all Shulk can do is stare at Marth and see the fright fill in those diamond orbs, glazed over eyes that reflect the terror of a cornered doe before a shotgun shell embeds itself in the poor animal's brain. The commander of Beta Squad slams his hand down on the table, giving the helm of the United States quite the murderous glare.

"No," Marth says, voice venomous, eyes looking low, and his hands are balled into fists. Shulk can see out of the corner of his eye that Robin's eyes widen, and Corrin freezes, head tilted to the side like a snake watching a rat bustle about before going through with the kill. "I can't. I can't _and_ I won't."

She purses her lips, hand running against the side of the table. "I'm sorry?"

"I am not leading Syrenet into Chicago. I refuse." the bluenette repeats, nails gritting down between the cracks, and Ike places a gentle hand on his shoulder, Marth turning around and snapping at him.

Corrin's eyes are frozen over lakes, and there's about as much warmth as a Himalayan blizzard reflecting in them. "Are you refusing to follow an order, Mr. Lowell?" There's no tone of negotiation in her voice, but one of a stone, solid and firm till a storm comes and tries to knock down its foundations. She, as captain of the cheer squad, remembers a day where bright flowers blew in the breeze, and stupid Lisa Parker refuses to partake in the school cheer at the most important football game of the season. Corrin closes her eyes and squeezes on Lisa's arm - there's pain, there's blood, and Lisa is screaming - Corrin never has to hear from Lisa and her stuck-up southern attitude again. The president wishes to squeeze and squeeze until Marth's pathetic little voice dissipates against the brick walls of the conference room.

"I'll still go to Chicago, but you are not putting this pressure on me. Ike said you gave him your word!" Marth shouts.

"And I did give him my word..." Corrin narrows her gaze, this time viperish eyes darting to Ike who jumps, swallowing heavily. "I made sure that you'd be given proper time to heal from your scars and then when I need you, I expect my commander of the second largest Syrenet squad to come into his role."

"Why me, though? I led the last mission and that ended in disaster!"

"You're not a very good optimist, Mr. Lowell, if you're going to let one slipup act as the protocol for the rest of your time here," Her tone lessens up on the aggressiveness, but only slightly, as Shulk sees the glimmer of daringness sparkling in Corrin's façade, that she's wanting Marth to go off the deep end just a little bit more so she can snap him up in her leviathan jaw. "If you do not lead this mission, I'll terminate your position and can then explain to the nation why you're stepping down. All because you're afraid to step up to the plate." The threat is evident and floats to the core of every individual in the room.

Ike clears his throat. "Madame Corrin, if I may-"

"You may not," the president lifts her head up, sighing in excess, really wanting a drink. "This is a conversation between Marth and I, not you Mr. Forgenson."

Shulk grimaces, wincing inwardly where his neck presses up against his shoulder, biting down on his tongue, and taking a deft leap forward. "Corrin, I think you need to take into consideration that Marth and Ike, but Marth especially, were severely injured in the aftermath of Oklahoma City," Corrin's face remains in impasse, as the blonde is smart enough to not ask for permission, but rather take the empty space up for himself. "He's been through a lot these past couple of weeks, and sometimes throwing him out in the middle of a hurricane like this is not the best strategy."

"Are you suggesting someone take his place as leader?" Corrin's tone, however, makes the question seem challenging, as if she's daring him to speak against her.

"No, I'm not. How about you at the very least lessen his responsibility. He still has command, but perhaps he's the last line of defense rather than on the first. Snake can most definitely fill that position."

Marth's eyes fill with gratitude, and he's never been more happy than in this moment to know a person like Shulk Roberts. He mouths out a silent thank you in the blonde's direction, and the other man nods while Corrin nibbles on her lower lip. She doesn't want to fold in the way everyone is pressuring her, but as she can see from the glances and looks everyone is giving her - Snake's being the most surprising of them all - Corrin relents.

"Fine. Marth, you are in charge of our command centers while Robin and I are away with the city. Snake, Midna, and Mac will be with us for that personal detail, and the rest of you gentleman get to make sure home base doesn't blow up," Corrin tilts her head to the side. "However, if you guys, being the hooligans you are manage to blow it up instead of some rebel force, I'll give you all a pay raise before handing you all your pink slips."

"What?" Pit jokes, happiness glowing off of his disposition. "You don't trust us?"

"I'm not a betting woman," Corrin doesn't bat an eye, and that is all she says to the matter.

However, as she looks around, she sees that most of the room is still staring at Marth, and the bluenette himself is hunched over, stuck in a world of his own. Ike looks down at his best friend admonishingly, a hand up on his right shoulder, squeezing for comfort. "It sounds good to me," the commander whispers after a few minutes of silence save for a few passing coughs. "I'm up for that."

Corrin taps the folders that she had set out for everyone. "Good to know," she clears her throat. "Now, with the folders in front of you, they detail how long we're staying, what we're trying to accomplish, and several other rules. We only get to enjoy the city after nine, no earlier, and everyone has to be back at base by two. I want this to be as clean as possible. If there are any harassment incidents that seem unrelated to a rebel cause, you tell the Chicago police force," Corrin settles her shoulders back. "I only want to be in the news for our good works that Syrenet is giving the city. Nothing else."

Midna flips through a few pages, face brightening at every other possible word. "Madam President, one question."

"And what would that be?"

"Any regulations on us drinking?"

Corrin smiles at that, as she's a fond and avid drinker herself. Link Collins's words echo in her head, " _Great, a drunk politician,"_ and she blocks out the rest, her face momentarily scrunching up. However, as she looks in Midna's expression, she sees something reluctant within her body behavior, as if the redhead is being reminded about a time long before where alcohol had gotten her into a lot of trouble. "Drink to your heart's content, _but_ do not cause a problem or I'll see it myself any of you never wish to have another drink again."

Midna does a fist pump to herself, eliciting an eye roll from her boss, and a giggle within Mac's gut. However, then she makes a soft coo in her throat, eyes glancing over to the secret service agent. "Wait, then that means Mac can't join in on our fun."

"Why not?" Ike asks, crossing his arms over his chest, and Corrin's reminded that the muscular commander has an appetite for beer bottles and their shiny caps. She laughs to herself. She's surrounded by drunks who are perhaps way worse than her.

Mac blushes up to his neck, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt. "Alcohol has never been quite my style since my college years. It's lucky for everyone though, because if everyone else is drunk off their rocker, you get me to act as the brawn of the operation! I'm quite the adept fighter. And I can also drive everyone around, so I expect people to pay for my gas money." His smirk causes everyone around the room to laugh.

Lucas raises his hand on his pedestal, and Corrin's heart for a split second breaks, as she's reminded of a time, one from forever ago with a babe in her arms and Cloud's smiling, he's smiling and she's smiling, and the child vanishes like a plume of smoke. "Lucas?"

"What am I to do while everyone is out partying at night?"

Shulk looks down at his AI Unit with a warm smile. "You'll be helping Pit keep the home base up to speed. I imagine with seven drunk men and women clamoring around, we're likely to break something."

Corrin lets the group share their familiarities and their fun, because the president is focused on ahead to a castle of ashes, where she can see the ruined flag rise out of the crumbling ruin and she's to climb the mound and claim the tutelage to herself. As her gaze passes over everyone sharing in their conversations, for the first time in quite awhile - though it has been too long for her to recall when was the first time she ever saw Syrenet as a family rather than a group of messed up college dropouts - there's a sense of love and enjoyment wafting from the group.

She only wishes that Cloud would be here to see it all instead of probably rotting at the bottom of a trash can. That's a place where her husband does not belong.

The president's face falls, and Robin takes that opportunity to give her undivided attention towards the fellow silverette. Snake stops the sentence he'd been saying halfway through, scowling, and turning in tune to Midna and Mac's conversation, the secret service agent once again flushing as brightly as Roy's hair. The vice president waves a hand in front of her comrade's face. "Are you okay?" she asks gently.

Corrin blinks, as if she's being taken out of a dream, and smiles though Robin sees that it is full of fakery. "I'm- I'm fine. What's up?"

"Could I show what I asked you about earlier?" Robin prods, eliciting Corrin to raise an eyebrow at the secrecy. She's known her vice president to be quite gentle in her manner and approach, but never timid or soft, especially that.

"Uh... I mean, sure. Will it take long?"

"No, it shouldn't," the other woman assures her. She whistles loudly to disrupt the rest of the chatter going around the table, and does nothing more than motion for Pit. The technician's eyebrows shoot up to the top of his head, along with his smile and jubilance, before bounding after the silverette who disappears inside another section of the White House. More silence passes over the group, and Shulk leans back up against the wall, hooking a thumb through a buttoned gap of his shirt.

He's always found Robin to be a damsel, but not necessarily one in distress. With her skirts and long dresses hitched at the ankle, the vice president gives off the look as if she's arriving late to a ball, and mark her words, does not want to become some Cinderella knock-off. Shulk titters a laugh at the thought. The blonde views everything from afar when it comes to his politician bosses. He has no prerogative to get attached, as that'd only spell perfect and downright horrible trouble for everyone if he did.

Robin and Pit only disappear for a few minutes, and the time ticks by with the monotonous ringing of the clock in the corner, which Corrin also hears Lucas cluck his tongue in rhythm to. The technician bustles back in carrying a box, one that's quite heavy and large as it seems he is struggling with it by the depletion of steady breaths and the fact Pit's hands do not link around either side. Ike helps his friend with it, and when the box clunks down on the table, it rattles inside as if each there are separate pieces crammed together.

Shulk leans forward from his perch, and Corrin's subtlety in her movements have changed from curious to standoffish. Robin quickly follows suit back into her spot and lets the human desire of knowledge do the rest.

"What's in the box?" Mac asks, biting on the cuticle of his thumb.

"Something," Pit teases.

"Like what?" Marth snorts, entertaining the jest.

"Something cool," Robin adds, and at this point Corrin is standing there with her hands bunched up. She's one to have a good laugh or chuckle around the campfire, but this preschooler attitude is starting to tick her off.

Roy groans and bangs his head against the table, causing the president to smile. They share in the same reciprocals of frustrated emotion.

"Open it up." Ike urges, and Pit is then ripping the cardboard box open with his bare hands. Pieces of Styrofoam fly out like a winter wonderland, a smile stretching across Lucas's face. A few cusses come from the technician's mouth, which turns Mac's face scarlet once more, before Pit has finished tearing the box into a pile of scraps and shreds. Cardboard Box #1 is no more. He motions towards Ike to do the honors of reaching inside. The bluenette grimaces momentarily, and reaches in. Everyone leans in to see what it is.

He pulls out a cylindrical object no longer than a canister of spray paint long, a pallid coat of paint decorating the object all the way around. A headlamp is placed at one end, and a bright red button on the other. Corrin raises an eyebrow as Ike begins pulling out four more and sets them all up in a line. Each object is designed and colored the same exact way, and it reminds the president of a row of grenades, though she has no idea where the comparison comes from exactly.

"What are those?" she asks. "They look like car batteries."

"They're much more than that," Robin smiles. She looks at the rest of the group, motioning her hands in a wide arc as she speaks. "For those of you who don't know, I went to college for a masters degree in engineering. However, at the near end of my sixth year getting a degree, the political world seen became my calling and I left the idea of being an engineer or builder of some sorts behind," a twinkle glows in the vice president's eyes, which makes Shulk smirk. He's never seen Robin so happy before. "One day, about a year ago, Pit calls me and lets me know about this prototype drone he's been working on, but couldn't quite get a few schematics down pact. So, I decided I'd help him and now, a year later, we have these!" she proclaims, and her hands gesture to the five canisters standing on the other end of the table from her side.

Snake rubs his chin. "So... they're just drones? How do they fly?"

"The red button," Pit explains, and pushes down on one of them after he grabbed it in his hand. A low whirring comes from underneath, and out pops a pair of wings from two slits near the headlamp. Both wings look as if they'd been made from glass and reflect sunlight like a dragonfly's wings. Midna marvels at the engineering excellence displayed before her, eyes wide, and it reminds her of day one of FBI boot camp, a time where nothing bothered her, reaching over to pat Robin on the shoulder. Pit hands the object to Shulk who examines it in his hand. "The drone is activated by voice command and will listen to anything you tell it to do. Almost like personal robots, and because our Syrenet suits are too expensive to sell to the masses, these can be more affordable."

"Can they kill anything? Do they have a self defense mechanism anywhere?" Shulk asks, tossing it back and forth.

Robin bites down on her lip, face flushed. "Pit and I haven't worked over that kink yet. They're just little advisory tools."

Corrin grips the end of the table, tapping her fingernails against it. "And what do you plan on doing with them?"

The vice president gives off a look with her face as if she had been caught in the middle of a crowded movie theater naked, her eyebrows furrowed together, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights. "I was going to get with you on that... but because we're here now... I thought we could sell the idea as part of the Chicago plan?"

A spell of silence passes over the group, disturbing enough in fact that Shulk places the drone down on the table. He looks at Corrin and is unable to tell what's going on through his head. He's seen so much, he's seen _her_ do so much and can read the president like a book, but now there's a blank slate. Shulk can tell, as he's not stupid, that the silverette is angry from her small shaped 'o' from her mouth, and the involuntary clenching of her hands, but what she wants to do with her hands is a mystery.

Corrin tilts her head to side, dangerously, and Robin's blood runs to ice. "Did- did I hear that correctly? You want to _sell_ these? And you weren't going to get my permission for it either?"

Robin wishes she could be anywhere else but in the predicament she's in. She closes her eyes and silently counts to ten, as if she's awoken from some nightmare and will be back in her bed, wrapped up in satin silk sheets, but nothing's changed and the entire group is bearing into her with bullets for stares. "I wanted to get permission but-"

Ike sits up and disrupts the flow of action. "Do you have a collective name for them? The drones?"

The vice president's heart elates - bless Ike, oh _bless_ his perfect blue haired soul - and she's forever in his gratitude now. She looks over at Pit, who nods back at her with a grin. "We have," he declares happily. He lets the suspense hang over the room for a moment - Corrin really wants to throttle the smug technician in the throat, and her comrade for that matter, but another time entirely - "As a collaborative decision, we've called these drones to be Robin's Automatic Army."

Everyone except Corrin shares words and sentences with Pit and Robin on the genius sounding name, the ominous part to it, but Corrin cannot get past the fact that her vice president views this, _these_ infernal devices as an army. An army? Her blood flares up with the temperature of a supernova, hands curling into fists, but she keeps her cool. She looks up at the roof as the world is spinning, the world is spinning too fast with the blood roaring in her ears, but Corrin swallows her pride. "It sounds quite nice."

"He and I were tossing back the word Automaton in there instead, 'Robin's Automaton Army', but that sounds ominous, and these things aren't full fledged machines that are body size and talk. It didn't seem like it'd fit," Robin says.

"I'd totally buy something with that name," Mac pipes up, a smile lacing his lips. "I think it's quite cool you and Pit made something like that. Will we get to see a demonstration?"

Corrin wants to jump in and override everyone. _"No!"_ she wants to shout, _"Hell no!"_ but she cannot do it, no matter how hard she tries. Shulk flashes her a look and she can see through him, he can see through her, and he's reading every thought passing by, shaking his head in dissent. He claps his hands and rocks back on forth on his heel.

"Well, as it seems like Corrin does not find it ideal to put them on the market, what if each of us got our own personal droid to keep and that'd be fulfilling enough."

Robin frowns, considering the thought. "I think that could work. If it's alright with Corrin, I mean. It'd be another reason why Syrenet soldiers are just that more superior than any other force around the globe, but it's all up to her." She gives her friend a look, full of puppy dog emotion that is meant to make movie audiences sob, and Corrin feels her heart crumble, only slightly.

"Fine. Roy, Ike, Marth, Shulk, Mac, Midna, and Pit can all have their own drones. But no more or I'll smash them all to bits," she warns. "I-"

More applause drowns out the rest of what Corrin says afterwards, with Robin trying to add something else as well, but Snake throws his arms around the vice president in a hug, Marth and Ike slapping Pit on the back for all it's worth. Corrin scowls, not joining the rest in some false celebration. She looks over her broken group that somehow will lead a mission to Chicago for her administration's future. The president finds herself stopping to look at Lucas.

The normally cheerful AI Unit is sitting on his disk, unlike his earlier position which had been standing up and cheering with everyone else about the possibilities of a new addition to the Syrenet team. He has his arms curled up at his sides, and a frown is plastered on his face. Corrin purses her lips at the look of Shulk's AI Unit, but doesn't say anything.

She wonders if the look on Lucas's face is the same on Fiora's from when she knew she had sent the youthful wife and mother to her doom.

What's done is done and can no longer be rectified, no matter how bad one may feel.

And Corrin Etch is feeling pretty bad.

* * *

Roy stretches his arms wide on the front lawn of the White House, the rest of the group breaking for a gourmet lunch at Robin's behest. He's tired and wants nothing more than to curl up the fireplace and enjoy a warm cup of cocoa. The sun is hot and quite painful against his exposed and pale arms, and he's reminded of days underneath a lamp that swings on a weak chain, flies dancing between the bulbs, and the man's gruff finger is poking to his chest. There's so much blood, he's unsure how much of it is, and then the world collapses when he's told that this strenuous two week torture session has been nothing more than some convoluted and sick FBI test.

The redhead wants to be happy for Robin and Pit, he really does, but from looking at Corrin's reaction throughout the entire session, he's unsure. An unfamiliar taste lies on his tongue, making it feel clouded as if he's been poisoned, and no matter how much happiness he endures, it'll never be enough. He's proud of Pit, though, as he's heard the stories and fables from everyone else in the headquarters building that the dude with white wings stuck onto his back is some genius in programming and designing. However, when looking at the Syrenet suits lining the wall, Roy's reminded that these designs weren't originally Pit's own work, but the founder back in England who's retired from the public eye, and now Roy's elation is drowning underneath a wave of disbelief.

However, now that he's staring these drones in the face, Roy can see that something glints in Pit's eyes and there's genuine talent in those hands of his. Now, if Pit could just fire a gun the way he holds a welding torch, everything will be a one hundred percent complete. Roy snorts at the thought though. When he was given a gun for the first time in his life, no older than fourteen, he'd been afraid of the loud noises and the kickback as should any other be.

A shadow crosses over his line of slight, blocking Roy's spot in the sun. He furrows his eyebrows together. "Hey, can you move? You're blocking my sunlight, and these rays feel quite nice."

"I don't think that's how you talk to authority, young man," a voice says, and Roy really wishes he didn't say that.

"I'm sorry Mr. Karlo, I didn't-"

"Just say please and I'll move," the FBI director admonishes gently. "I also told you to not call me that. I'm Snake, and Snake only. We're all workers here, no need for the formalities."

Roy huffs a tuff of hair out of his eyes. "Please, _Snake,_ move."

"Better," Snake grins. "May I sit?"

The redhead cranes his neck up and looks around the lawn. There are a few customers bustling in and out for a tour, but there's hardly anyone out in the emerald lane besides a few security guards. The ones holding sniper rifles reminds him of Link Collins with that chipped grin, the cigar, a boot in his face, and that deadly knife. "There's no one else around, so... sure."

Snake plops down next to Roy rather unceremoniously, and something cracks which may or may not have been the older man's tailbone. He curses to himself, rubbing around the injured area. Roy tries his hardest to not stifle a laugh, as he's already been disrespectful once before and surely Snake is a man to not tolerate repeat offenders.

"What was for lunch?" Roy asks, after a few moments of tranquility passing between them, no sounds except for faraway shoes clattering against gravel or the rustle of a tree nearby.

"Barbecue. You missed Pit slip and fall on some spilled sauce because Midna decided to play a little trick on him," Snake grits his teeth. "That girl sometimes, I swear Roy, she drives me crazy."

"You're the one who hired her," he reminds him.

"Trust me, I beat myself up at night over that all the time."

The two men laugh, and Roy looks away momentarily, bothered, but he's unsure as to why. There shouldn't be any bad blood between them, he thinks in his head, should there? He mulls over what he knows about Snake, and he finds out that the list is quite small. 1, Snake is a good sniper. 2, he promises to save his fellow soldiers when in trouble. 3, he's totally in love with Robin, everyone from miles around can sense that in him though the man swears he's not. 4, the FBI director for some reason wants to talk to Roy Arcadia.

"What do you want?" he asks, and there's no aggressiveness in his tone, and he's trying to keep his cool and calm. Roy remembers the nights in the hospital where he's alone, and save for Ike and Pit's cold encounter, Midna is warm and embracing, but nothing else and no one else makes an effort to show up.

"I'm here to apologize..." Snake says mysteriously.

"For what?" Roy knows exactly what the FBI director is going to say, but there's an innateness deep inside his mind that has to have the words uttered, just to let him have this fraction of a second where the redhead is on top of the world and winning all the games that are there to be played.

The other man runs his hand through the grass, hair blowing in the breeze. "For never seeing you in the hospital," Snake admits. "I'm sure you've already talked at length with everyone else about it, and I know Midna came by to see you, and probably gave some good excuse to cover my ass..." he looks off. "Had I just been a few seconds faster, maybe you wouldn't have ended up with hurt legs and partial PTSD over the city Boston."

"Snake..." Roy's voice is impossibly soft, eyes looking at Snake full of hurt.

A laugh comes from the brunette, full of emotions that are the complete antithesis of genuine happiness, but more of a bitter snarl. "I don't get emotional, Roy, not often, but for some reason I feel so damn troubled about it. I couldn't do it. I've been at this job for far too long, probably since you've been in diapers, and there's been way too many workers and agents of mine that died simply because of my incompetence to arrive just in time. Do you know what it feels like to let people down and _yet_ still be revered as this mighty savior to them? To the same people you failed?"

Roy's mouth feels as if it's been stuffed with cloth, unable to move his jaw or tongue without making a complete fool of himself. Syllables stutter out, slurred and broken when there's usually a bottle of tequila in his belly. The redhead has a pit of sour acid rip through his stomach, and for everything he's said to Midna, for everything he's barked at Ike and Pit, and for everything he's shouted at Shulk, a pain rests in the hole the acid has created, and it hits him. Roy Arcadia has been a complete asshole the entire time he's been back from Boston, and the blonde's words are truer than any of the banal bullshit the man has uttered, ever.

"I can't say I do, Snake..."

"It's exhausting, downright sucks all the life out of me at times, but I don't give up because I love this country and the place I live in needs leaders and directors who have the backbone to continue working with the mess presented in front of them," Snake rants, hands clenched and unclenched, ears tinted a zealous pink. "There's never been a challenge I stared at directly in the face and thought I couldn't do it, but time and time again somewhere along the line I fall short."

"Everyone fails at things, but I-" Roy should just shut up at this point, there's no support he could give to the director that people haven't already given him a thousand times before.

"It never gets easier, you know." Snake says suddenly, jumping points of the conversation faster than Corrin's facial expressions.

Roy furrows in his eyebrows. "What doesn't?"

"Syrenet. Working with Corrin. Working _for_ Corrin," the FBI director elaborates. "She's going to ask a lot from you, and there's nothing else you can do but try and do it to your full ability. People get on me for making them shut up instead of trying to have her eat crow, but it's the truth. What happened in Boston, while terrible, was child's play..." he pauses, letting his words sink in. "Chicago will be an entirely different ball game. Boston had been nothing more than simply another FBI mission. Now try and persuade a city of a million or more people to buy into a government service that has been proven to be a failure beforehand in previous cities, make a small council of eleven try to get that to function, and not have rebels who want to destroy you get a chance to kill everyone while you're at it? I've done way too many of these Syrenet missions since I joined Corrin's team, but they still have me toss and turn."

The redhead is stunned by the turn of the discussion, and he does nothing but sit there and listen. That's all he's done his entire life. Sit there and listen. He listens to his father berate his mother, he listens to their screams as they fight in the living room, he listens to the gun sounds and his mother's sobs, yet he never stands up to help anyone. Roy has his ears open while Link wails into him on his own stupidity - "How could you be so damn stupid?" Link howls into the redhead's ears with a ferocity that threatens to split him open - but he's unable to move an inch or say anything but a stupid joke back as the means to defend himself. It's quite the confidence boost.

"Why is working with Corrin so difficult? By doing things we essentially can't?"

Snake looks at Roy, and he jumps out of his skin, seeing an entire history of problems radiating through the director's eyes. Roy sees war, he sees famine, he sees a heart drenched in blood fall into a pool of tar, he sees Snake rip a knife out of a man's throat while trying to reach Corrin who's being held hostage at gunpoint, and he sees the end of the world reflected in those mahogany eyes. "Has anyone so far told you about Fiora?"

Roy mulls over the details in his head. "Not much. I know she was Shulk's wife and that she died on a mission to Detroit for Syrenet."

The FBI director leans back into the grass, arms underneath his head. "Fiora Roberts was one of the most amazing human beings I've ever met. At the time of her mission, Fiora had been quite along a surrogate pregnancy that she and Shulk managed to snag months earlier. Detroit was falling apart at the hinges and Corrin needed the best person in her arsenal that was readily at her disposal to lead it," he goes onto his right side so he could stare straight at Roy, eyes unreadable. "Shulk had been occupied with some mission in Mexico, and everyone else Corrin would've rather picked was also busy, compromised, or dead. What would you've done? Would you have let a woman with a possible happy future go off, or let an entire city collapse and presumably have worse ramifications down the line?"

"I- I would've gone myself instead, I-" Roy begins to answer.

"It's not that simple, Roy. Corrin didn't want to send Fiora, but she had no other choice. Detroit collapses in on itself anyways, with or without Fiora's involvement, and now it's the reason why there's a country that isn't Canada on our border. Fiora went and tried to help stabilize peace. Shulk comes back from his Mexico mission to his wife being declared missing. Three weeks later, he finds his wife mutilated and turned into some robot in a Detroit sewer, their unborn child dead as well, and he wants to blame it on Corrin. No one, no one at all would have ever in a million years, foreseen that outcome. How could they? Fiora knew what was at stake and went anyways."

Roy's blood runs cold. "I never knew that..."

Snake shrugs. "Not that many people do. It's why Shulk is the broken china doll that he is, but I wouldn't blame him," the FBI director gets up from his spot on the grass and dusts his knees off, dirt and single emerald blades falling to the ground. He turns to walk away, tossing out one last statement at Roy. "Fiora died because she tried serving her country and her president the best she could. What do you think will happen to you if things end up like Boston again, but there's no one to help you? Will you meet a possibly more gruesome fate than Fiora Roberts, or will you rise to the occasion and make everyone who ever doubted you surprised to see you alive?"

With that frigid note, Snake Karlo, the head director of the FBI, walks off and leaves Roy stuck in his spot, completely shell shocked. A cold sweat trickles down the redhead's forehead, and his hands and feet feel heavy as cinderblocks.

The sunlight no longer feels warm like it did a few moments ago.

* * *

Shulk's left hand is cold from gripping the half-full beer he took from the refrigerator, waiting for the elevator back at the Syrenet headquarters to lower down to the main basement floor. The doors ding open with a musical flourish, and the blonde steps out of the cube. The pathway to the main bedroom for he, Marth, Ike, and Pit is wide open from earlier in the day when they all left, and Shulk steps in before slamming it shut.

In the middle of the room is the same briefing table where Shulk once spilled the beans on the Boston mission to Roy - the memory stays frozen in time inside Shulk's mind, and he wants that piece of time to vanish away forever into blurred nothingness - and on it is an AI Unit's disk. Shulk freezes momentarily when looking at it, the beer in his hands almost crashing to the floor. That couldn't be Ness's, could it? He shakes his head. That'd be impossible.

That disk has a bullet hole in it, and besides, Shulk recalls throwing it in the trash after he destroyed it from Corrin's orders. His heart begins to beat steadily again, as that disk must've been Lucas's. He sets his beer down and presses the center of the disk. For a second it burns a bright neon blue, as if it's starting up, before shutting off. The commander of Alpha Squad recoils away from it, frowning. He presses it again and gets the same result. A brief turn-on, and then the light disappears. Shulk sighs.

"Lucas? What's wrong?" he asks aloud. No response. Shulk looks at the ceiling, praying a silent plea. "I know you can hear me."

An image on the disk blurs into focus. Lucas is sitting on his disk, no taller than a foot, huddled into a ball where his knees are hugged up to his chest. "Go away Shulk. I don't want to talk about it."

The commander frowns slightly, taking a swig of the bear. He downs one sip and then hesitates. Him being drunk for what seems to be heading into the direction of a fatherly talk would be best well kept sober. Shulk pushes the bottle away from him, so far where it clinks against the wall where his eyes linger on the refrigerator where he can simply grab another one. He resists, before sitting on the floor so his eyes are level with Lucas's that dance away from his the moment they catch each other.

"What is it? You know you can't talk to me. You're my best friend, bud!"

Lucas's eyes fill with hope, a sound hope and a brightness that hadn't been there a moment before. "Really?"

"I've known you the longest," Shulk explains. "That near about qualifies it. You hear my thoughts and I hear yours, so we're practically joined at the hip!" A goofy smile catches onto the blonde's face, and he's never felt more like a dad than in this single moment.

"We're like Siamese twins!" Lucas elaborates, face twisting into a scowl as he completely and totally butchers the pronunciation of the word, adding a few extra n's and s's in spots that there are only seven letters and not fifteen.

"So, what's got you upset?"

The AI Unit looks away abashedly, a blush settling on his bluish cheeks. Shulk wonders for a moment what it must be like as Lucas, to never truly interact with any human and have no possible memory recollection of life before being turned into computer data. It's a fleeting thought, and one he wishes he hadn't expounded any into, as he's blanching and wanting the beer more than ever before.

"Back at the conference, when Vice President Robin and Pit revealed those drones... their... army," Lucas spits the word out with poison, an anger that draws Shulk back as he's never seen this side of the cheerful and bubbly AI Unit he's known to come and love. "I felt an emotion I've never felt before. One I know that hadn't been programmed into me."

"And what would that have been?"

"Jealousy," the AI admits.

Lucas crumbles up a section of his shirt as he says this, twirling it this way and that like a curtain. He's telling the truth, another programming input that means he'll always say what is on his mind no matter what, and that has gotten him into a lot of trouble. He's unable to explain what jealousy felt like, instead that it hurt and burned his inner core of cells and digital lines.

"Jealous?" Shulk raises an eyebrow. "At those drones that all they can do is fly and act as a flashlight? Mind you they also can't speak..."

"They looked cool!" the AI Unit tries for a reason, and then can't, stuck with the fact he's being unlike what the gods of his design programmed him to be.

"None of them have personalities," the commander reminds his digital friend. "They also don't have individual names! I'd say you're ten times better than them."

Lucas looks at Shulk, and for some reason the blonde feels like he wants to cry, an emotion he's felt before when in secrecy no one has told him to feel it. He likes it, actually, Lucas does, doing stuff that people tell him not to do. It makes him feel important when people only ever want to help him because they need a job done and never because they want to spend some time and company with an actually genuine and joyous person. However, Shulk isn't like that, Lucas knows this deep down yet he sometimes feels like it isn't true. Shulk has stayed up past midnight, on days where he needs sleep, just to talk about Lucas's apple orchard or his rose garden and the waterfall he's discovered while hiking on his time off inside the expansive world that'll never die all trapped up in the AI Unit's disk.

"Will-" the boy hiccups the question, "Will you ever replace me with one of those drones?"

Shulk makes a face as if he's been stabbed. "Why would you ever think I'd do something like that?"

"Because you said it yourself," Lucas averts his gaze to the floor, focusing on one particularly dirty tile underneath Shulk's feet. "You suggested that you, Marth, Ike, Midna, Roy, Pit, and Snake each get one... and if they're just gonna be other companions, why would you need me?"

The commander almost falls over, his AI Unit's words riveting brain deep against his skull, echoes of an injured whale against an abyss's walls that sting and haunt his days forever and ever. "Lucas... don't you _ever,_ and I mean, _ever_ think something like that again. You're Lucas Dio, the AI Unit to the head commander of the head squad of Syrenet. Do you have any idea how important of a title and role that is?"

"It's... big?" Lucas hesitates, biting down on his lip and Shulk's heart melts entirely.

"That's beyond big!" Shulk emphasizes, moving his arms out behind him in a huge arc. "That's bigger than this entire country, Lucas, and we have quite the big country," he leans in as if he's going to kiss Lucas's forehead. "You're my ride or die guy, Lucas, and I'd never in a million years dream of replacing you. Okay? Nod with me," Lucas reciprocates the action, and Shulk smiles. "Good. Now, get some rest. We leave tomorrow and I don't want to have a sluggish AI Unit in my head mewling over wanting coffee and donuts, okay?"

Lucas smiles. "Okay!"

Shulk gets back to his feet and groans, creaking out the dust in his joints, as good god he is way too old to be crouching down to what are practically children at this age. He goes and grabs his beer, which is oddly lukewarm now and tastes fuzzy in the back of his jaw. He goes over to his bed and begins pulling down the comforter and sheets.

Looking over, he sees that Lucas is still sitting there, face pensive as if he's thinking. "What?" Shulk says aloud. "Did I not convince you enough?"

The AI Unit shakes his head. "No, I'm just thinking."

"Oh? What about? Anything I won't be able to understand?"

"I'm feeling lonely. On top of being jealous."

"Lonely? Why lonely?"

Shulk feels as if Lucas's gaze, though full of cheer and the brightness he remembers, as this is the same blonde kid who asked Roy Arcadia if he could sing to him in Spanish after all, pierces through him and burns down to the very core, painful and antagonizing, like Fiora's final stare before he shuts the coffin over her and lets her dying screams reverberate into the pallor corpse lit night.

"I miss Ness," Lucas chews on the inside of his cheek. He sees Shulk freeze, his best friend is frozen with one hand gently holding onto a bed sheet, the other clutching the stupid beer.

The commander's heart stops and slowly starts to pick up speed. He turns away from Lucas, unable to hide his shame. "I miss him too, Lucas. I'm sorry about that too."

Lucas doesn't say anything except a slight hum of acknowledgement. Shulk downs the rest of his beer and tosses the bottle all the way across the room. The AI Unit cannot help but wince when the sound of shattering glass and a string of curse words is the reward for the commander's drunk antics, but Lucas shouldn't expect anything different at this point.

He watches his best friend get underneath the covers, turn the light off by his bedside, mutter a half-hearted good night, and go away to a state full of dreams.

The AI Unit leans in, rubbing his chin, and for some reason can only doubt that Shulk meant that he missed Ness.

He's finding it hard to believe it.

And that scares him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed it; please leave a comment, subscribe, or a kudo if you enjoyed! I hope you all continue reading for Chapter #20: Chicago's Greeting.


	20. Chicago's Greeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy makes a link to the past, Mac and Midna argue in a bathroom, Sheik arrives in Chicago, and Marth's heart begins to race.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening - or morning - you guys, Paradigm of Writing here with Chapter #20, the ending chapter for Arc #2: Rebuilding the Basics, which has been a rollercoaster of up and down emotions, I know. Thank you all so much for reading to this far; this chapter will be big... and Arcs 3 and 4 have much more on the horizon, just you wait. Enjoy!

Roy knows, as he's seen countless paid adverts from telemarketers who seem like they really don't want people to live, that being on a plane is the safest place for man yet beyond dangerous where a harmless glass bottle could fall onto the aisle floor and that somehow cause the plane to fall apart. So, currently half an hour into the flight from D.C to Chicago, the redhead sits in his chair all the while clenching the armrests till his knuckles turn blue. The plane is silent for the most part, the pilot up front with Corrin, Robin, and Snake in the cockpit as they discuss politics and important stuff - Roy calls it politics and important stuff because their conversations do not affect him - so, there's three occupants already preoccupied.

Shulk's crammed himself into a corner in the back of the plane with a book in his hands, which Roy finds amusing as usually it is the Beta commander clutching a novel, but this time the blonde picks up a Stephen King novel and reads away. Ike and Marth are in front of Roy a few seats up situated around a table playing poker, and the redhead can tell from the way Marth constantly groans and leans back in his seat that he's losing such a streak. Pit is further up than them by the cockpit door, fiddling with Robin's machines. The brunette's brow is glistening with perspiration as he cranks away with mechanisms and numbers that make Roy's head swim, and Mac watches him intently, though he steels a glance at another passenger on occasion, as if he's afraid they'll strike.

Everyone except for Midna is doing something that Roy's not bothered with. The lady in question is over in her own seat facing the back aisle, and her gaze is directed primly - predatorily if Roy's opinion is something of merit - at him. His skin feels clammy and the armrests wrap around his own with leather vices. He catches himself looking back at her with just as much intensity, because he has all the right in the world to look away and perhaps watch the clouds. However, the fluffy balls of white are not nearly interesting enough, unlike the gal sat thirty feet away from him.

She gets up, and Roy's body tenses. Midna eyes him the entire walk, which surprisingly gets Mac's attention, the secret service agent scowling as wide as the Grand Canyon. Roy notices this as well, and sighs heavily. All he is doing on this trip so far is existing and he's causing more trouble than what he can anticipate. The redhead can see it now, with a drunken Mac getting into a fight with him, and since Roy's confidence in punching the lights out of new secret service agents wears thin, he can see dirt being in his face one evening.

Midna plops down on the chair that is facing him, and Roy swears that the plane tips forward some.

The FBI agent sucks on her lower lip, the sound filling the silence, which causes Roy to flush a bright red at the implications. "What are you staring at me for?" she asks.

"What are _you_ looking at me for?" Roy prods back at her, folding his arms. "You've been eyeballing me since we took off."

"You're more interesting than watching Shulk read," Midna smirks. "He's boring."

"I agree with her a full ten thousand percent!" the commander in question shouts, consenting with her opinion. "This book sucks."

"Then why are you reading it?"

There's no response. Roy shifts in his chair uncomfortably, and there's something about her gaze that pierces right through him. He's frowning, as the stare is familiar and it is one he should know but it cannot come back to him. He recalls his thoughts about Midna at the bar the night Cloud went missing. The redhead puts all his known pieces together and there's nothing clear coming out of all of it. He sits forward.

"I know you from somewhere and it's bothering me..." he whispers. Midna lifts her head up and begins to laugh. Roy furrows his eyebrows together. "What?" Roy asks angrily.

"It took you that long to figure it out?"

"Figure what out?"

Midna sits forward and gives Roy an all knowing smirk. "Think back to your senior year high school days, _Mr._ Arcadia," she says the title mockingly, causing the other redhead to roll his eyes, then her words sink in. "For all of high school you only ever ask out one girl. Her amber hair is the most amazing thing you've ever seen, and she rejects you because she's already seeing someone. From that point forward, you sit in the passenger seat as that girl moves and you never see her again up until Boston... who am I reminding you of?"

Roy feels the answer sitting on his tongue like poison, thick and viscous where no syllables dare speak save for the executioner's blade. "I- I don't-"

"Does the name Midna Veracruz mean something to you?"

It hits him. A thought with the force of sledgehammer swings into Roy's stomach. His mouth drops. It's a rainy day at school, and Roy's soaked down to his shoes. The umbrella in his hand is crumpled up and twisted by the wicked winds of a winter that is eternally freezing. Prom is two weeks away, and his father has placed a hand on his shoulder, looking at him deep in the eyes. He's told to go get a lass and invite her to the dance, a dance where high schoolers let foolish love fill their hearts and then the world may freeze in time. Roy thinks about it the entire walk to school, and the storm clouds roll in. Now, as he's stuck in the school's foyer waiting for the bell to ring, his eyes light up and look upon Midna Veracruz. Stunning, effortlessly popular by her good looks and a parent tag team who are business executives for Silicon Valley corporations... she's the dream girl for the guy who's dreams don't go that far. He builds the courage, his feet feel like cement, and when she shows him the engagement ring that a boy from a town over has given her, Roy's rain shower transforms into a hurricane.

He looks at Midna, eyes swimming in an emotion akin to confusion. "We went to high school together?"

She nods. "You and I spoke maybe seven words to each other before you asked me out to prom. I met a guy at a party about three years earlier our freshman year, and he had proposed to met the night before you asked me for the dance. We'd get married after graduation, and be one of those newlywed couples who'd beat the odds," Midna scoffs, biting her cheek. "I was so stupid as a girl. I changed my last name from Veracruz to Nye, and now I'm Midna Nye."

"How'd the marriage turn out?"

Midna's face twists into one of sadness. "A pretty dream, but nothing more. Just a dream. Let's just say my husband believed I should look like a runway model who'd succumb to every sexual need he wanted. I dropped out of that marriage only a few years in when his true colors came into play... but it looks like his habits have followed me."

"His habits?"

"It's hard to explain."

Roy looks out the window for the first time on the plane flight. It'd be about another hour and a half till they'd land in Chicago, and the Syrenet Midwest project for the second time around would begin. His eyes glance over Midna's hands. "I swear you had a wedding ring on there once..."

"No. That was just you imaging things," she smirks. Midna runs her hands down the armrests. "After divorcing the sleazebag, I flew under the radar and stayed in Philadelphia for a few years. Served as a waitress in some bar, and then my father talks to me about maybe joining the military. I found that to be an excellent idea, but plans turned elsewhere, and here I am as an FBI agent... where even then you and I didn't cross paths..." the agent looks at Roy wistfully, lips slightly parted. She scoffs. "I'm so stupid to even wonder-"

"You're not stupid..." he consoles her, reaching out and placing a hand gently on her knee. "Wonder what?"

Midna looks at him and he's stunned by the brightness of her eyes. "What if I ended my engagement to the illustrious Mr. Nye and stay as Mrs. Arcadia. If I went to the prom with you, maybe I wouldn't live a marriage that was all lies and full of abuse..."

"If you and I married, then there's probably no way either of us would be sitting on this plane with Syrenet. You wouldn't be an FBI agent, and I'd be a lot less than what I already am now."

She looks away, gaze going to the floor. Midna gives a slight laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, you're probably right..." she gets up from her seat. "If you'll excuse me." the FBI agent walks away from their seats and Roy watches her slowly as she heads towards the bathroom on the other end of the plane.

When Roy turns back, he looks up and he catches Mac look at him. His skin becomes cold with the slickness of sweat as the secret service agent's gaze is the thousand yard stare, but all he sees is fire, a spear drenched in fire with blood splattered on the windowsills. Roy looks away, disturbed, and shudders. When he looks back, Mac is facing Pit and watching the rest of the Automatic Army's hardwiring and corrections take place.

The Syrenet employee exhales a long sigh, chewing on his lower lip.

He shuts his eyes. There's no time like the present to get some shuteye.

Roy Arcadia is to dream of his death, of the world's death, and of the possible life he wishes should it be only him and Midna come the end.

* * *

The woman in the bathroom mirror sighs. She runs a hand through her hair, unscrewing the lid of a container of blush, the name faded away as she's unable to read it. Midna blinks at her reflection, feeling the sorrow wade through her bones from the shoulders down to her feet. Roy's stunned expression sits in her mind like a stilled frame, frozen forever in time with his parted lips and raised eyebrows. He's quite cute - Midna will never be caught saying this out loud to him, that'd be horrible if he were to find out - when he's confused, but one of those confusions where Roy secretly has an idea in his own head of what's going on around him.

She applies the blush to her cheeks, the tan skin popping out a little bit lighter. Chicago's weather reporters were detailing a sweltering heat wave for the next two weeks, and Midna has had her fair share of experiences dealing with leaving runways and getting hit with a full fledged blast of fire riding the wind, making her appearance more disheveled than orderly.

Midna feels Mac's stare on her, and she can feel through her spine that his stare is more pointed, furious and raging. One look at Snake, and she can understand the conversation going on between both men as her boss more than likely told the secret service agent to back off. She looks down at her body, seeing the ghostly curves of her thin hips and the fact she can count her low ribs when pulling up her dress. There's been too many missions in her past, missions that she wishes to never remember but does because it's for the sake of her nation that she does the unspeakable things she's done. Her body steals the scene when the time is called for it. A drug lord eyes her from across the room and over to him she'll go, slowly lifting the scantily and revealing low cut dress. The drug lord's eyebrows raise, his eyes widen, and Midna has never felt more disgusting in her life.

It's engraved in her mind now that skin sells, she's been doing this for so long... nothing else makes sense. Midna's unsure if that's why she went immediately for a quick one night stand with Mac in the presidential bathroom. Mac's a handsome guy, Midna's willing to admit that about the secret service agent with his bulking muscles, bright eyes, a gentle smile, and a presence of roughness yet a tad bit of the guy's personality being warm and fuzzy. He's a great kisser, he's got hands that make Midna wish at one point he would've been her Mr. Nye, but the fact they work together complicates things.

_Shouldn't that be the same for Roy? Don't be a hypocrite, Midna._

She flinches at the thought, it hadn't even crossed her mind that if she's somewhat attracted to him, he's just as much as a sidekick employee as Mac. Her heart hopes and prays to all the gods of all the religions - whichever is to answer her first, is Midna's desire - that in Roy, there's no semblance of romance colliding in his heart.

Midna finishes applying the blush, setting it back in her purse before stepping out of the airplane's lavatory. She begins to walk down the aisle, when Mac over by Pit's position gets up. The two lock eyes, and a cold shudder goes down the redhead's back, the arctic winds colliding with skin and her synapses flare to life. Something about his gaze is deadly and engaging. Her glance quickly goes to Roy, the other man huddled into a ball inside his chair, snoring away. It turns out Shulk in his perch is beginning to snore, the book splayed open against his chest. Marth and Ike are still engaged in their poker game, and Pit's too far gone in some technological daze to make any sense of anything else.

Mac stomps over to her, as it seems the man has never learned the talent of walking softly, where each step feels like an earthquake underneath her feet. He reaches her, and there's no happy emotions written across his face. His left hand grips her elbow roughly, and she's startled by the forcefulness of his approach. She shakes him off, scowling, and Midna's ready to have some WWE brawl in this aisle on this plane should he touch her like that ever again.

"You and I need to have a talk," he hisses at her, storming past her. "Right now!"

Midna follows his movement by turning her head. "You think?" she snarls back.

He wrenches open the bathroom door, nowhere else on the plane except the cockpit for privacy. She looks up at the ceiling, trying to find an answer in the paneling, but nothing other than the dull stenciling of shapes leer back at her. The redhead follows Mac back into the bathroom, unceremoniously slamming the door. Shulk stirs from his spot, but she's not in the frame of mind to care.

The bathroom is no larger than a nine by nine, a dinky toilet placed in the corner. The mirror is cracked with a few lipstick stains on it, and Midna's imaginative mind is able to picture the other pieces together. Mac crosses his arms together, leaning up against the far wall. For such a costly plane, the state of the bathroom leaves much to be desired as the light overhead flickers on and off occasionally, the secret service agent's scowl cast half in light and half in shadow. Midna looks at him annoyed.

"What do you want?"

"Do my feelings mean nothing to you?" Mac asks harshly, eyes full of a scorching anger.

"I'm not quite so sure what you mean." She's good at portraying the innocent school girl, but from the way Mac grips at her arm, the act is not fooling him.

"You know very well-"

She throws his hands off of her arm and pushes him back up against the wall. "Do not touch me again!" she threatens, barring her teeth. Midna's blood is boiling, and it's like Roy all over again where someone is upset and feeling damn entitled to something that isn't theirs to begin with.

Mac grits his teeth, looking down at the floor, letting out a sigh dripping with frustration and disappointment. "I thought we had something."

Midna can't help but laugh. _"What?"_

"I-"

"You and I had a quick fifteen minute 'sex-capade' in the bathroom and you call that as us having a relationship?"

"What would you call it?"

"A one-night stand! As it very well should," Midna exhales. "You're a super attractive guy, Mac, but we're colleagues and it's bad practice to date who you're working with. Especially on a Syrenet mission as prevalent as this."

"It seems like you were getting frisky with Roy at your last conversation," Mac glares at her. "Talking about how you wondered what would your life be like if you married him instead or-"

Midna is not going to listen to his bullshit. She's built herself up from nothing other than a deluded sense of reality and it'll be written in her will that the entire world will burn around her before someone comes in and desecrates all that she's accomplished. "Oh, no! You are not going there, _Mr._ Sarasota," Mac scowls at the usage of his proper name, but Midna's not gonna let up. "Roy and I know each other from years back. It happened to be that Roy could've been the one to save me from marrying the douchebag I got stuck with. For all the problems I've gotten myself into and the ones I still struggle with."

"Such as what?"

"That's none of your business."

"You have no problem telling Roy these things," Mac sets his jaw.

"Well- well he and I have history together."

"Like what?"

"That's none of your business."

"Well, if it decides to get in way of what _I'm_ -" he starts.

"I'm this close to sucker punching you in the gut," Midna's eyes blaze with a black and burning retribution to make the secret service agent spit blood. The arguments with her ex-husband come back, and the lights go out as the breaker is smashed to pieces. The bluntness of the mirror against her cheek as he slams her into it, Midna's cries becoming weaker and weaker till the sounds of cloth being ripped fill her eyes, followed by the pain... and Midna breaks face, lip quivering.

Mac sighs, running a hand through his air. "Snake told me that I needed to stop trying to pursue something with you. I'm here to tell him that he can go and shove his regards back up his ass," he goes for her hands, much more gently, and Midna's stuck trying to forget her ex-husband that his fingers lock with hers easily, like smooth butter in a pan, and Mac picks her chin up - eyes match, and for a moment there's harmony - where her expression is foggy. "I like you, Midna. Roy doesn't. You can _see_ it when you talk to him. You're a gorgeous woman, that's a fact no one can deny you, but is everyone hung up on your attractiveness or your personality. I'm in _love_ with both."

Midna's mind registers that Mac says he loves her, but it's too late for her to change her mind. He leans in a gently places his lips on hers. She stays perfectly still, hands still locked with his, unsure of what to do and where to take everything from here. It doesn't hit her till moments later that she's now kissing back, lips sliding under teeth, and then the hands begin to roam.

She backs Mac up into the bathroom wall again, and the light above jolts out and snaps back on. Mac presses slightly harder against her lips, and Midna's heart leaps once more as it did back, ironically, in the bathroom over at Corrin's mansion. His hands rest against the sharpness of her shoulder blades, and Midna sucks in a breath of surprise as his fingers splay outwards across the rigid hump of bone. She places her hands against his chest, the solidness and firmness of the muscles underneath transforming into silly putty as she kneads into his skin.

Slowly, Midna raises a knee up between Mac's legs, and a sound gets caught in his throat, an estranged cry of pleasure that causes her to smile against their kiss. She slides her leg in and out in the space, and the secret service agent babbles a sweet compliment. She collides their lips together, a tangy salty sea taste flushing between them. His fingers move down her front, now resting ghostly against her hips, and there's a pause. Midna's mind panics, as she's unable to recall if Mac remembers how skinny the area around there had been, but her thoughts are rest assured. Mac's hands pick up speed, his thumbs tracing circles around her hip bones, flowing over the pocket of ticklish flesh near her thigh.

Midna lowers her hands as well, going underneath the hem of Mac's jeans, and the breaths pick up and accelerate. The two break apart from their lip lock and Midna looks into Mac's eyes. An unreadable emotion glimmers in his oceanic orbs, one that isn't lust, but does not necessarily lie in the border of love and want, but something more. _Companionship._

She tugs his jeans down, down, _down,_ and Mac shudders against the chilly and cold air of the bathroom hitting exposed flesh. Midna smirks, rising back up to then take his shirt off. His muscle toned body is put on all display for her to see, and she's not upset at the very least in the latest turn of events.

He leans in and nips softly at her neck, a rush of wind expelling out of her lungs.

"Do you love me?" he asks into the nape, warmed consonants and vowels fluttering.

"No. I _fucking_ hate you."

Mac smirks against her skin, kissing it softly. "You're a bad liar."

Midna is unable to respond, and then the light above completely goes out.

She's grateful, and soon both of their voices utter out foreign phrases of tongue as the plane rocks, and it comes to the point where the redhead is unsure whether or not that it's turbulence... or something other than.

* * *

Sheik lowers the visors from her eyes, peering above the black frames, a clean cut line of shadow and above it the colorful dance of the world. The sun beats down onto the mustard colored taxi cab, the driver silent yet noisy at the same time. The blonde likes how the sunlight hits her hair, the braid practically glowing a fluorescent sheen of halcyon with the added splash of color. Her phone sits against her leg, and bounces up with her as the taxi comes to stoplights and stop signs, speed bumps and the occasional stomping of brakes that flings her forward.

Her cab driver does not know English all too well, so his question of asking whether or not she's okay comes out to be if her lady parts have experienced any damage, as Sheik blushes profusely, hoping the light overshadows the red tint settling on her cheeks. Her legs are exhausted from the long drive from Oklahoma City to Chicago. It is easier for her to fly, but the woman has never trusted planes in her youth after her mother died in a plane accident thanks to a thunderbolt from the sky. Sheik wants thunderbolts to zap down from the sky and end a many people's lives, but of course the only person in her life to die from the sky's discharge is a person she loves.

 _Partially loves._ Her mind has to replay that track record over and over again or otherwise she'll forget it. Her mother's face will never go away, like a haunting memory. Sheik wonders what her mother may have looked like in the throes of death, her final moments before the fire lacerated her skin and tore away at the bone and seat she's stuck to. Is her hair gorgeous or burnt to cinders, dark brown with hints of a copper red fleeting through the mask of mahogany. Sheik frowns, thinking of another complication. Her father had a mixture of blonde and brown hair, more the latter than the former, with wicked hazel eyes. Her mother is a dark haired gal through and through, sea emerald green eyes that make a cat very jealous sitting in her skull. How do they procreate a baby with blonde hair and blue eyes? She's never posed the question.

She switches topics again, going back to reminiscing and wondering about the plane crash. What is her mother wearing? A floral dress like she used to, or something darker and sinister? Is her hair loose and wavy against the small of her back, or stuck up high in a ponytail or bun? Is her mother thinking of her daughter and husband before she dies, or the last sentence of the last book she's read? Maybe it's the lingering taste of wine that stays with her forever, but the answer will never be asked.

Sheik's at dinner with her father - she's nicknamed him Sal because she's always found that name funny with her father's antics - after a term of college ends, and she remembers it being her sophomore year, having just turned twenty. Sheik's longing for a bourbon, or a scotch, but Sal is refusing to put that down on the tab as he swears by the holy book he's buying her dinner whether she wants him to or not. She settles for an iced tea, stirring it and stirring it because Sheik Braring actually doesn't like iced tea but it's cheaper than buying a soda, so there's that.

Sal is cutting into his steak, a slab of prime rib with a heaping side of mashed potatoes, and she picks apart at her Caesar salad. He's downing a jug of ale, with foam spewing off the top onto the side of the glass and onto the table like bile frothing at the mouth of a ravenous bear. "You're quiet," he comments, taking the bite that had been on his fork. "You're normally not that quiet, Sheik. What's the matter?"

"I'm just thinking," she responds.

"Yeah? What about?"

"Do I have to tell you?"

"I'm your father. It's my job to inquire in these things."

Her hands stop moving around the salad. Her mother's casket is freshly buried in the ground, and there's been little time for her to recover. Something about the reading of her mother's will haunts her and stays lingering behind, whispers from the walls of her dorms that come out at night. "Was Mom not really my mother?"

Sheik can recall to this day that Sal gets eerily quiet, and the sounds of his fork scraping against the plate cease till the banter of the restaurant drown out their hub of precious silence. He locks his jaw, considering a response, but says nothing, taking another bite of steak. "Why do you ask that, honey?"

"It was something that had been said in her will."

"What?"

The blonde bites the lower left side of her lip, looking at the other patrons. Everyone else is huddled around their table with gleeful and gay conversations passing between them, husbands and wives sharing a dessert together, or a mother looking adoringly at her newborn while she tries feeding him a single long noodle of spaghetti, yet here she is not having said more than twenty words all dinner, and Sal is doing all the talking.

"I remember her sister, Aunt Tetra, reading that I wasn't what Mom intended to have her in life."

Sal sets down his silverware, cupping his hands underneath each other as he places his elbows on the table. "That wasn't what Tetra had said, sweetie."

Sheik has the entire phrase recited to memory, she's been musing over it for the past three weeks incessantly, non stop almost to where she nearly failed her Chemistry final. "To Sheik, my beautiful daughter, you are not what I intended to have in my life. Occasionally I'd watch you play, and see that there's more to you that meets the eye. That you aren't a mix of me and Sal, but of people my husband and I could never be. Bravery, courage, a 'kickass' love for shooting, and looks I could only dream of..."

Her father looks at her with sadness in his eyes. "Sheik..."

"What did Mom mean by that?"

He looks off just like her, unable to bring his focus back to the center. Sal presses his napkin up to his lips, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "What your mother meant by that was you were a child who exceeded all of your expectations. Your mother wanted a child to be docile, scholarly, and quiet, just like she was. I'm more lively and energetic, but you know I keep to myself a lot. You, Sheik, however, play the role of the engager. You're constantly up making friends, being the loudest presence in the room, and also being a pretty wicked fighter. You've got more skill with a sniper rifle at twenty with fourteen years of practice than I did with nearly forty. Your mother only meant that she originally wanted someone unlike you, and then realized later in life that you're more than she could ever ask for."

Sal's words echo in her brain, like a puck bouncing off the digital sticks of Pong, but Sheik takes a sip of iced tea and bores her stare into her father's eyes. Sheik doesn't believe him, and she'll never believe him.

"Promise?"

"I promise, darling," Sal's gaze is saddening.

"You wouldn't lie to me?"

Her father reaches across the table and grabs his daughter by the hand. "I will never have any reason to lie to you, Sheik."

The blonde is so caught up in her pensive state of mind that she doesn't register the cab driver slamming on his brakes. She goes flying forward, the memory of that college dinner so long ago now a fleeting creature with no merit to its name. Her driver locks eyes with her in the mirror, grinning jubilantly from ear-to-ear. "Here!" he exclaims, and it's enough to let Sheik know that she's arrived at her destination.

She lets herself out of the cab, the trunk popping open. Wrenching one of her suitcases out, the sound of metal clanging inside makes her blood freeze, eyes snapping at the cab driver in case he had heard. The world continues, nothing amiss. The package of her _Revolution_ is inside on of the suitcases, and even though it is as silent as the dead who walk, it makes the most noise inside her head.

Sheik only brings with her three suitcases when she travels. A backpack, a rolling suitcase, and a bag she can carry in one hand. She had paid the cab driver when he picked her up at the airport, nodding at him when he then gets back into the ugly mustard vehicle and drives away. A cloud of smog covers her, and the blonde coughs fiercely, hugging her chest as she can feel the germs and grime coat her braid. The expert braid that she's spent so long making is probably ruined, and she'll never get the chance to avenge the fallen hairstyle.

Heaving with all her strength, Sheik musters forward through the high rise hotel doors of the place she shall be staying, the warm Chicago air brazen against her skin. Walking up to the front, a concierge stands nice and neat behind the counter with a fake smile to boot, perfectly manicured nails that could scratch the rebel leader's eyes out, and probably fifteen concealed weapons on the woman's body.

"Checking in?" the woman asks sweetly, batting her eyelashes.

A dull throb begins to quiver in Sheik's lower lip. " _I want to burn you alive,"_ her mind hisses, and then aloud at the woman, "Yes. A room reservation for Sheik Braring."

The woman scans the computer screen in front of her, clicking her tongue between her cheek, the noise eerily sounding like a gunshot. Sheik is reminded of long evenings with Sal by her shoulders, guiding the hands as they lock the magazines in place, the click of reloading, and the ghastly sound of steel being let loose from its cage. When she showers, Sheik sometimes and it's only when she's damaged and depressed - luckily, that isn't often - imagines that instead of water coating her skin, it is the cardinal drops of blood from the animals she's killed, or the dirt still clinging to a musty old pair of boots that may be her father's but she's never asked.

Several keys are given to her, Sheik nods, and then scampers away from the concierge desk as fast as she can. The woman's perfume is starting to stick to her body, and Sheik would rather prefer to smell like taxi cab exhaust than desirable candy cane December, which she's sure is what the woman has hovering around her form. The blonde walks over to the nearest elevator, hitting the up button.

A little jingle plays for her, something akin to Yankee Doodle, which causes Sheik to frown. Unless she's hearing incorrectly, that's the same exact sound coming out of the console where the buttons stay. The elevator arrives on her floor with a _ding,_ Sheik stepping in. It closes behind her quite abruptly, causing her to lurch with the sudden upward shift in motion. She steadies herself, leg muscles still aching from the long drive. Sheik, despite the fact she didn't fly, gets a cab at an airport. Her father instills in her at a young age that you've never experience a city if you're forced to drive through it. _Get a cab. You'll save yourself a lot of heartache._

Sheik's room is up on the eleventh floor, quite high but luckily Sheik Braring is not afraid of heights.

The elevator stops on her floor, and the doors slide open with a flourish. She stands stock still in the slate cube, hesitant. If she takes the next few steps forward, there's no going back. She'll never be able to go back. In her heart, she knows that this is the right thing, and it's about time she turns her words into actions and takes them seriously.

The blonde steps onto the floor, the elevator closes and begins to depart down towards the lower floors. Sheik's heels on the carpeted floor echo around the walls, until she gets to her room, in the middle of the hall. She unlocks the door with her room key, pushing open the barrier, and stepping inside. She leaves her luggage in the doorway, looking about the room. Sunlight is streaming through an open window in the other corner, the sheets and curtains of the room a solid white.

She sighs, taking a deep breath.

"Let's do this," she says determinedly.

Sheik's beginning of the end for Syrenet in Chicago shall begin.

* * *

Although Ike's comforting words and pats on the back seem reassuring, Marth's heart continues to pound against his ribcage even after the plane settles onto the runway with a screech. The door to the cockpit opens, and the merry trio of Corrin, Robin, and Snake step out into the main section of the cabin. The president's face is at a calm resolve, and Marth's wanting to hate her, wanting to split her in two with his bare hands so she can feel the terror he's gone through, what he'll be dealing with for the entire duration of their stay.

Corrin examines the group collected, Roy waking up from his nap. "Where's Midna and Mac?"

The group sitting in their seats - Marth, Ike, Pit, Roy, and Shulk respectively - all look around. Shulk catches on first, clearing his throat. "Midna! Mac!" he calls out.

There's the sound of someone slamming their head against something, and the stifling of a curse. The door to the plane bathroom wrenches open, and out stumble the fated pair. Roy's face flushes a bright red, which Marth catches with an expert eye. Both people in the concerned party have their hair disheveled, eyes wild, and some buttons undone here and there. Corrin looks down at her feet, swallowing her rage, before giving the Syrenet crew a one-over.

"Thanks for being patient with Robin, Snake, and I as we discussed White House matters in the cockpit. Hopefully you kept yourselves entertained..." her words do not fall on deaf ears, Midna's face burning brighter and deeper than her already glowing amber hair.

Snake claps his hands together. "Get your things. We'll be leaving to our headquarters location in about ten minutes."

Everyone begins to move except Marth. His luggage is by his feet, and there's no need to move it anywhere else. Marth can't help but feel surging rage course through his veins when looking at Corrin. The flight has given him a lot of time by himself, and this time wisely has been used to think. He thinks of cloudless nights where he's up on the roof of his college dorm staring at the stars, or down by the beach as a young boy with his family playing in the sand and waves, seashells tickling the undersides of his feet, his mother throwing him up in her arms, or the cruel glare of the sun down on his exposed skin.

However, passing the memories also is the first year when he arrives at Syrenet. There's not too many details shared on the news about it in the beginning, except it's under a youthful presidential candidate who wants to do some good in a very unusual way, and Marth signs up. He passes the first several tests and exams no problem, eyes sharper than a hawk's, brain moving a mile a minute, and his looks can charm the pants off of anyone. However, when it comes to the two-year trainee program, something that Corrin actually ends after Marth's signing into the Syrenet program, the bluenette hits his first ever major roadblock.

Several jerks - Marth's forgotten their names now, and it's been years - get jealous of his ability at shining in the trainee program. He's a cut grade above everyone else, so four or five _guys_ \- in the bluenette's eyes they're children through and through, but petty insults will get him nowhere - decide that making Marth Lowell's life a living hell on Earth would be good for him and knock some gratitude and good sense into him. At first it's simply harassing him about the slightly queer look he's got, but Marth's straighter than the North Pole, so that falls short, but then it turns into a night where he's dragged from his bed and beaten senseless in the hallway. Marth keeps his mouth shut, believing the threats hissed in his ear as the fists go ramming, or when the skin collides into his backside, body smashed against the carpet, the plastering wall... Marth is beaten up and stays silent. It's his way, it's always been his way, and nothing is ever going to change that.

The Syrenet coaches and the all of the government directors never ask where the bruises on his face come from, or the languid scratches down his back that pierce the skin and draw out crimson droplets. It takes him two years and the continuous humiliation and pain that is unable to be replicated anywhere else before Marth lashes back and lets go, falling into a comatose state where work is the only thing on his mind - Corrin's happy, the higher-ups are delighted, his personal stats soar, and Marth is miserable - until he wants to never read another word from a Syrenet mission letter ever again. His DNA however refuses to back down, and so Marth gruels to fight another day.

When he's inducted into Syrenet's ranks as the 2nd in command of all the Syrenet Squads, his bullies are nowhere to be found, probably shamefully stirring their shoes in the dirt. If they could only see him now, where Marth wakes up screaming from nightmares, or is chastised by his closest friend for never opening up, the nights Marth is surrounded in a pool of his own piss because the frightening images elicit more than just screams or chills... to where he wants to give up and throw in the towel... the bullies were right from day one.

Ten minutes pass, and everyone starts to get off the plane. Corrin goes first by executive right, followed by Robin. Marth waits till it is his turn, letting Midna and Mac scramble out afterwards. Pit takes his sweet ole time putting up his Automatic Army, and Roy sleepily stumbles out after him. Shulk is reading the book that he had been looking at earlier on the flight, somehow not collapsing down the steps. Ike claps Marth on the back, hand clenching against the shoulder blade to say everything is okay.

He can see it now. Marth sees it clear as day, a life of his own once Syrenet is over, and he's given it up forever. Her hair is blowing in the wind, covering her face slightly where the glint of her eyes ferociously illuminates out of the wave of mahogany, and he's expressive in a hearty chortle that has both of them crying. There's a future between them, Marth feels, and that future is gorgeous. Twins swinging from modeled tire swing attached to the sturdiest tree branch, a daisy dress clinging to the girl while the boy feels to sit there exposed and naked, but Marth has found absolute beauty in his son.

It's a future full of sunny mornings and starry night skies, where the bills are paid and his wife somehow is a Victoria's Secret model with lingerie more expensive than their entire house and the acreage surrounding it. It's a future that seems wonderful.

If only Marth Lowell wasn't so shit scared to reach out and seize it.

He finally - it's been a good four minutes since everyone started filing out of the plane - gets up and grabs the one duffel he brought with him. He ducks down low so he doesn't hit his head, and stands on the top step of the set of stairs down to the runway. The rest of the group is piled about, all talking, and everyone's attention turns to him. Marth jumps like a deer caught in the headlights. Sweat begins to trickle down his forehead, skin becoming clammy and seizing up.

Robin frowns. "Marth? It's okay!"

Ike breaks from his half-hearted conversation with Mac, looking back at his best friend. "Marth?"

The bluenette freezes, duffle bag dropping down the steps and landing in a plume of dust at the bottom of the stairs. Shulk starts forward, closest to Marth, but stills with one foot on the first step. Marth's throat closes up and he begins to exhale heavily, trying to get the breath out. His eyes go wide, hands clutching at his throat while the nails of his hands claw, _claw down_ and the scarlet begins to spill out. His name is shouted out, but Ike runs up the steps before anyone else can, reaching his best friend first.

"Everyone give him some space! I think he's having an anxiety or panic attack!" he calls out.

"Should I call 911?" Corrin's voice sounds almost as if she's annoyed, and Ike would do anything to throttle the president right across the jaw for her insolent comment.

"I'm gonna sit him down inside the plane. Give me a couple of minutes, okay?" Ike asks.

He leads his best friend back inside the main cabin of the plane, sitting him down in the nearest chair he stumbles upon. Marth's throat lets up and he is able to breathe, each one shakier than the last, arms visibly trembling. Ike grabs his friend's hands in his own, and slightly recoils from the clamminess and unnatural feeling of Marth's palms. The commander of Charlie Squad cusses, wrenching open a small refrigerator that is up against the far right wall next to the cockpit door. He grabs a water bottle and twists the cap clean off so hard that it bounces against the sides.

Some of it sloshes out onto the carpet, but Ike doesn't care. He stands up, slightly bent over Marth's form. "I need you to open your mouth, Marth. I'm going to slowly pour some water down your throat. You need to let me know if it is too much for you at one time. Nod if you can hear me."

Marth nods, but his eyes make Ike's heart fall. They're wide and laced with fear, a fear that strikes in the heart of even the most stalwart warrior. Marth's lithe chest rises and falls with every breath, and if his best friend is to place his hand up against it, he'd feel the stampede of hooves on a dirt trodden Earth against the ribcage. Ike is unsure exactly what is causing the total takeover of fear, but if he is given three guesses, he'll nab it.

The burlier man of the two slowly tips the water bottle to Marth's lips, gently prodding as the liquid slowly spills out. He hears Marth swallowing every couple of seconds, the tension in Marth's eyes slowly lessening. He goes through half the bottle before Marth is grasping for it on his own, hands seizing the sides and swallowing down a good three fourths of it.

"I-" Marth tries to talk.

Ike shushes him. "Don't speak. Not yet," he instructs sternly, slowly taking the water bottle from his best friend. "I'm going to feel your pulse for thirty seconds." He places his fingers against the side of Marth's neck, the drumming beat of the bluenette's veins pulsating underneath his fingers. Ike watches Marth's eye movements, tracking them to see how speedily his eyes dance around, and notice that his breathing slowly is starting to shallow down to more relaxing paces and heaves. However, his pulse rate is way too high, as if he had just run from Somalia terrorists or did a Boston Marathon.

"Ike, I-"

"I said to not talk. Please..." the other man pleads, still counting the commander's heartbeat. A dew seconds pass between them. "Your heartbeat is pumping way too fast for my liking," Ike grits his teeth. "I'm going to ask you a series of questions. I need you to answer them in the best way possible, but take your time if you need to continue catching your breath. Nod if you understand," A complacent nod. "Where are you?"

"Currently on President Corrin Etch's private jet, on a runway in Chicago."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Marth Lowell, commander of Beta Squad for the government branch of Syrenet."

"Who is talking to you?"

"My best friend Ike Forgenson, commander of Charlie Squad for the government branch of Syrenet."

"Can I ask what is causing your tension and lack of breathing?"

Marth hesitates, and Ike is worried that he's overstepped his boundaries and has gone too far now. However, all the bluenette under questioning is doing is taking deeper breaths where his chest rises to full expansion and slowly recedes to normal position. "I'm worried about the mission, and that I won't be able to help the group should problems occur."

Ike shifts from standing to going to his knees. "Follow my finger, please."

The commander uses his pointer finger and goes left with it, all the way to as far as his arm can reach. Luckily, Marth's eyes follow according to a sign of better health and being in a far better predicament than moments earlier. Ike lifts his finger up, Marth follows suit. Down, same result, right meets the definition of assurance, and back to the center does Ike feel like Marth's calmed down some.

"Let me feel your pulse again." Ike places his fingers up against Marth's neck, his friend subtly flinching under the warmness in his two fingers. The commander nods as he counts in his head, satisfied by the result. "Good. It's slowed down. Now it's like you went for a walk around the block. How do you feel?"

"I-"

"Don't lie to me, Marth. _Please._ "

"I'm okay. Better, I mean," Marth answers.

Ike gives him back his water bottle. "Continue to sip it."

Marth chugs down the rest, totally ignoring the advice of his best friend. The sound of someone climbing back up the steps breaks the eerie quiet, Shulk appearing in the shadowed light. "Corrin wants to know if we'll need an ambulance."

Both bluenette men lock eyes, the one sitting in the chair gives the dissented shake of his head. Ike smiles at that, then looks back at the blonde commander. "Marth's okay. We'll be a few more minutes."

"You good?" Shulk looks at Marth.

"I'm good..." the bluenette responds, weakly.

Shulk nods lowly at both men, and gives a full smile. He jogs back down the steps and Ike can hear him call out the answer with a few sighs of relief following in response.

Marth sits in his spot, unmoving, and feels his body slowly start to calm down. When his anxiety attack came on, his body warmed up to insane temperatures, heat pooling in his ears and the joints along his arms and legs starting to rust together, where he fears they'd snap in place under any more forceful pressure. His vision began to blur together, and all he sees is disjointed blobs of color, and one bright hue of cobalt rushes to up him, guiding him by the hand - Marth feels like he's being lifted in the man's arms via bridal style - but he's able to slightly register that it is Ike helping him out, keeping him content, and bringing him back to Earth.

"I'm sorry..." he whispers.

"For what?" Ike asks, eyes full of empathy, yet a distilled sense of confusion.

"For being like... like this," Marth throws his hands up to try and get the message across that he's this large mess. "I've been freaking out and having nightmares, and now these stupid panic attacks all over Syrenet... and here you are trying to deal with it like a mom. I imagine I'm stressing you out."

"You're giving me gray in my hair. You're beyond the point of worrying me out and stressing me out, Marth. And you shouldn't have to apologize about anything."

"I feel like I'm going to cause this entire mission to fail. There's all this pressure on me and I'm unsure whether or not I'll be able to rise up to it."

Marth tries to think over in his lifetime if there's ever been someone at the same level of pure awesomeness and dedication that Ike, Ike freaking Forgenson exudes when it comes to a family member or best friend, and then it's decide that no one has ever, is currently, or ever will come close to how his best friend and Syrenet partner in crime has along the time he's been alive. Though the two share their common insults and petty fights like all friends do, Marth sees the world from Ike's perspective - the black coffin, a rose, a tar ocean, a casket of gold, a bouquet of violet petals, a hailstone, a curl of blonde hair, and a rusted nail - that is the experience and world he's shared between someone no longer considered just a passing friend.

Ike chuckles at Marth's last sentence. "You aren't going to cause any one of us to fail at this mission. Either we succeed as a team, or we all lose as a team. Besides, I'm your best friend. It's what I'm here for. Picking up the pieces once you collapse. I'm lucky that you just happen to not collapse all that much."

Both men sit in a silence that for once is not awkward, but one that is mutual and filled to the brim of brotherly love. "I- there's something I never told you before, since I've known you," Marth says.

"And what would that be?"

"Before you were selected to join the Syrenet team, Corrin had a program that acted like a boot camp of sorts, and trainees were selected to be a part of this program. It was to last about two or so years, have a graduating class, and all that nonsense. A few guys in my 'class' got jealous of my success and began to harass and bully me. It was like we were back to being fifth graders again, Ike, I swear. I never did anything about it. I just sat there and took their nightly beatings. They punched me, they cussed at me, they spit on me..." he trails off.

Ike catches on, and his face reads the emotion of pure heartbreak. "Did they..." the man is unable to continue that thought.

Marth swallows the bile rising in his throat. "Yeah, Ike, they did. They raped me... and no one ever bat an eye because I never told them. Never showed anyone the scars. Never saw a doctor... God I was so stupid back then..." the commander lets out a nervous laugh, staring at the ceiling of the plane. "I'm in my mid-twenties, living in a dorm that isn't parent's place... I didn't ever think about what would happen," he closes his eyes and the sounds all come back, a flood of distasteful memories, where the copper still lingers in his gums, and everything goes sour. "But, anyways, after finally managing to get through literal hell on Earth, I escaped those bastards' clutches. No one in Syrenet, especially after those circumstances has ever gotten close to me. I used to have a friend in high school who was almost like my brother, except he didn't like the color blue. However, you-"

"Yeah. I know, I like the color blue." Despite his best efforts, Ike breaks into a gleaming smile.

"I can say that you're my brother, now..." Marth's voice catches in his throat, and then he's wrapping his arms around Ike in a hug. The other man is caught off guard, wondering exactly how a trip to Chicago starts off with a panic attack and is ending on a bittersweet soulful admitting of finding family. Ike returns the embrace happily, squeezing tight and letting go so that both men feel slightly warmer about the end result.

"Thanks, Marth."

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

"You're not one to lie."

"Thanks. Thanks for calming me down, I-"

"Don't need to say it."

Ike struggles to his feet, knees having become sore. He holds his hand out to Marth who takes it. The commander of Charlie Squad lugs his friend up like he's a dainty flower, and the entire plane cabin feels as if the pressure has been sucked out by a vacuum. Ike tosses the empty water bottle in the trash can, not actually looking at where it lands, and smirks when he hears it hit the side of the can and not fall in it. He'll get it later, he supposes.

"Are you ready?" he asks.

Marth exhales, and closes his eyes. "Yeah. Let's get this mission on the road."

The two commanders exit the plane under a roaring tide of applause, where hugs and apologies and comforting words are tossed all around. Marth hugs tight to Robin's motherly grip, and he feels like he's seven again, as his mother kisses the boo-boos away, and chases the monsters out from under the bed.

Underneath the blazing sky, the Syrenet crew has managed, although not fully intact it seems, to survive the touchdown into Chicago.

It is Chicago's duly noted greeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we are you guys! Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Who were your favorite and least favorite characters of the arc? Favorite and least favorite moments? What do you think will happen in Chicago? We are officially at the halfway point for the story, which I am super happy about. I hope you guys have an amazing day, and please, comment! It'll mean the world to me. I will see you all for the first chapter of Arc #3, which is called Syrenet's Chicago Shadow, with Chapter #21: Itching to Play.


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